Sleeping Minds
by Nina Grey
Summary: AU. While searching for their father, Sam and Dean Winchester break down outside of a sleepy town called Storybrooke, where time is frozen and the curse remains unbroken. The Winchester brothers must learn to navigate through both worlds and a tangled web of love, revenge, and betrayal to help break the curse and save their father. Hook/OC, Rumple/OC
1. Welcome to Storybrooke

A/N: This contains elements from the first and second season of SPN and is focused heavily on the plot of OUAT season 1. I own only Morgan and Adrian Jones, and other characters that do not appear in the canons. All else belongs to their respective creators.

* * *

Chapter 1 - Welcome to Storybrooke

The black '67 Impala ghosted along the pavement with ease and grace. Night had fallen, cold and overcast, and Dean Winchester rolled up the driver's side window. He adjusted the dial on the radio, but as far as he could tell, they were in the middle of nowhere; the signal here was fickle, but he left the radio on for the sake of having background noise in the cab. Too much silence unnerved him.

"It's too damn cold out here," he muttered as with a flick of his wrist he turned up the heat. "Where the hell are we anyway?"

Dean's brother Sam, who had been lost in thought, started and reached forward. He opened the glove compartment and withdrew a map and flashlight. As he unfolded it and clicked the flashlight on, he replied, "Maine. There's not another town for at least sixty miles; according to this, we're about seventy-five miles southeast of Bangor now."

"How the hell did we end up this far out?"

"I think we took a wrong turn somewhere. But these coordinates Dad sent us don't make sense." Sam paused to glance at Dean's cellphone with the aforementioned coordinates, and used them and the map for comparison. His brows furrowed, as was their tendency when he was concentrating.

"What do you mean they don't make sense?" Dean snapped, frustration edging his tone, as he glanced quickly from the meandering road to his brother, then back again.

"He sent us coordinates for some sort of town, apparently; SB 44.230, -68.543. But there's no town on the map. I ran the coordinates through Maine's Department of Marine Resources before we left Salem - absolutely nothing came up. Ran them through a few other databases and still nothing."

"How many times did you check?"

"Twice."

Dean's grip on the wheel tightened ever so slightly. His annoyance was growing with every mile; they had been traveling this road for hours, and they had not seen a single car since crossing the New Hampshire line. The road meandered, twisted, rose and fell with the terrain, flowing with the rocky landscape rather than through it. On either side of the lonely highway, pines and oaks towered, ominous silhouettes against an even darker sky. They had not heard from John in months, which was altogether not so unusual; however, the fact that he had sent them coordinates for a town that didn't exist puzzled and irked him. John was meticulous, and he would never make such a mistake as giving them the wrong coordinates, especially not when it involved gathering clues to find the creature that had murdered their mother and Sam's girlfriend.

Dean's jaw tensed. _This is bullshit._

The radio faded to static again, though this time Dean did not even bother to adjust the dial. Neither brother seemed willing to say much more, and both fell into silence, and thus into their respective reveries.

For another five miles southeast, the Impala continued her course. They had returned to an area with decent signal, and now Metallica's _Master of Puppets_ was blaring through the speakers. Dean's mood had greatly lifted as a result, and he was now happily drumming his hands on the wheel in tempo with the music.

Sam continued staring into the veil of darkness that stretched endlessly before them; the Impala's headlights had caused a rent in the dark, and for a moment, Sam's vision softened with road fatigue. The roaring bass and pulsing drumbeats seemed a world away now, had faded to a drone in the very back of his mind. Jessica's death was still so vivid that he could almost feel the warm stickiness of her blood on his forehead, could feel the heat of the fire that had erupted from her body. His stomach lurched rather painfully as the images had begun to worm their way back into his consciousness.

Suddenly, the radio had been reduced to static again, though this was static was strange; it was higher pitched, with soft tinkling noise behind the crackle. Dean and Sam glanced at one another, when the car came to a sharp stop, causing both boys to lurch forward in their seats. Dean grabbed the wheel, while Sam gripped the dash. The engine had died completely and without warning. From the backseat came the familiar, high-pitched squeal of Dean's EMF detector. He reached into the black bag on the seat to retrieve it, and found that every light was shining steadily and brightly; the squealing was just as intense as the lights, but a moment later, the detector fell into silence. The lights had flickered once, then turned off. The detector was dead as well.

"Goddammit," Dean cursed under his breath as he tossed it angrily back into the bag.

He opened the door and climbed out of the car, his brother following suit. He walked to the front of the Impala and lifted the hood; after a moment's inspection, he concluded that there was no logical reason for the car to die. The battery was relatively new, she had just been topped off, and he had changed the oil himself. She was running perfectly only a few moments ago and had given no indication that something was wrong.

Sam, meanwhile, took a moment to survey their surroundings. The road had not changed, and there was nothing that they could have struck with the car. He turned to the right and found a lonely sign, dimly lit by a single light on the ground a foot in front of it. He could not read it at this angle. He walked to it and came to stand before it. In elegant lettering, the sign declared, _Welcome to Storybrooke._

"Hey Sam, where are we?" Dean called to him when he had shut the hood with a dull, metallic thud.

"Storybrooke, according to the sign," Sam replied, motioning at it with his chin.

Dean looked at his brother incredulously. "Wait. Storybrooke?"

Sam shrugged. "It's what the sign says."

"What the hell kind of name is Storybrooke?"

"Maybe Disney owns it?"

"The greedy bastards just weren't happy with Florida and California, were they?" Dean muttered under his breath as he looked at the Impala again, who sat dark and silent on the road. With a sigh he rubbed the back of his neck.

"We don't have much of a choice, Dean," Sam said as he shoved his hands into his jeans pockets. "At least we broke down within the town limits, which means it's just a short walk. From there we can call a tow truck or a shop or something, get something to eat, and find an inn or motel."

The wisdom in this statement was something Dean could not refute. It was growing later and colder, and they would probably freeze in the Impala. As reluctant as he was, he nodded and followed Sam up the road and past the car (Dean gave it an apologetic glance as he passed).

Storybrooke, as Sam had inferred, was a small, sleepy town, the epitome of a quaint New England town. It had to have been quite late, as there were no residents out and about, but he was puzzled when he glanced up at the clock tower in the center of the square.

"It's only eight fifteen," he noted, glancing at his brother. "I know this is a small town, but isn't this still kind of early for it to be so deserted?"

"Eight fifteen?" Dean looked down at his watch. "My watch says it's almost ten."

"The clock never works," came a child's voice from behind them.

They started and turned to find a boy, no more than nine or ten years old, looking up at them with great interest. He was fair and slender, with short black hair and striking blue-green eyes.

"Who're you?" Dean asked.

The boy opened his mouth to a reply, but a woman called out, "Adrian!"

The Winchesters glanced up to find a woman hurrying towards them. Like the boy, she had black hair, which had been swept back into a low ponytail. Her skin, too, was fair as porcelain, and her eyes were a cold pale green.

"What are you doing here, sweetheart?" the woman asked as she crouched in front of the boy. "You were supposed to have walked straight home from Aunt Gina's."

"I was, but they walked into town," Adrian explained, motioning to the men with his hand. "I've never seen them before."

The woman seemed to have just become aware of their presence, for she stood to her full height and eyed them suspiciously. "Who are you?"

"I'm Sam, and this is my brother, Dean. Our car broke down just outside of the town limits."

"I see." She was still wary of them, that much the boys could see; she had both of her hands on the boy's shoulders, and stood protectively above him.

"And you are...?" Dean asked.

"Morgan," the woman replied. "Morgan Jones. This is my son, Adrian."

Dean looked her over, and was quite pleased with the female member of the welcoming committee. Upon seeing his appraising look, her eyes narrowed. Sam, noting the tension, cleared his throat.

"Do you know where we can find a tow truck around here?" he asked.

She turned her attention to Sam, though not without a final glare at Dean. "It's just a few blocks over. However, it's closed for the night. There's a diner just right down the street, Granny's. I can escort you there if you'd like."

Dean was not impressed with her coldness, though Sam would rather have cold civility than none at all.

"I suppose you don't get much action here in the way of newcomers," Sam observed as he and Dean began to follow her and Adrian down the street.

"No, we don't," she answered over her shoulder. "No one ever comes to Storybrooke, and no one ever leaves."

The Winchesters looked at one another uneasily, and the unspoken rang heavily between them: _Another case?_

It was a short walk to the facade of the diner, whereupon Morgan turned to face the two strangers. "The same woman who owns this place also owns the bed and breakfast just down the road. If you explain your situation, I'm certain she'll accommodate you."

Sam nodded in thanks, while Dean was busy perusing the menu on a chalkboard easel in front of the door. "Sam, look!" he cried excitedly. "They have pie!"

"The best pie in town," Morgan said with a hint of pride in her tone.

"Thanks for your help, Miss Jones," Sam went on.

"It's Mrs. Jones, and you're welcome."

Dean straightened; he did nothing to conceal the disappointment that had crept across his handsome features. "You're married?"

She nodded. "My husband owns the shipyard and dock across town."

"So he's a sailor?" Sam inquired.

"All his life," she replied.

"Dad's got seawater in his veins instead of blood," Adrian piped up. "That's what Mom always says."

Morgan glanced down at her son and smiled, but it faded into her customary serious expression when she returned her attention to the brothers before her.

"She reminds me of it every day," a man's accented voice added from the door to the diner. An extremely handsome man, tall and dark, with arresting sea blue eyes, had just exited the establishment and was now walking towards Morgan and Adrian. He eyed the Winchesters, though his expression, unlike hers, was difficult to read. The two could see the gears turning in his head, however.

"Haven't seen you two around here before," he continued. "What're your names?"

"I'm Dean Winchester, this is my brother Sammy-"

"Don't call me that; it's Sam."

Dean ignored him. "Our car broke down just outside of town."

"Has it now?" the man asked, quirking a black brow. "Well, gents, you're out of luck until morning when the shop opens."

"Yeah, we know," Dean grumbled, sticking his hands in the pockets of his leather jacket.

"It just occurred to me that I've not introduced myself," the man said smoothly. "And here I'm trying to teach my son to be a gentleman. I'm Killian Jones - you already know my wife and son."

"Pleased to meet you all," Sam nodded.

"I'm sure you know this already, but your arrival is sure to cause quite a stir," Killian said. "After all, it's not often that we get strangers here."

"Morgan acknowledged that, yes."

Killian smirked. "Welcome to Storybrooke, Sam and Dean."


	2. Gone

A/N: I own only Morgan and Adrian, and other characters that do not appear in either canon. Everyone else (c) their respective owners. Italics indicate flashbacks.

* * *

Chapter 2 - Gone

Once Killian and his family had gone, Dean and Sam entered the diner. There were some residents scattered about, conversing in low voices or sitting alone at the bar with a pint in front of them. The patrons, however, paused in their activities to look up at the two strangers who had wandered into their midst. Sam and Dean were accustomed to such reactions, as it was a frequent occurrence whenever they entered a small town of Storybrooke's caliber. These residents eyed them with suspicion and uneasiness. Sam tried to smile as a sort of peace offering, but the patrons' expressions only hardened further.

_What the hell are you doing here? _their collective voices seemed to echo.

Sam averted his eyes and followed his brother, who had chosen a booth near the back corner and was now perusing the dessert menu. He lowered himself into the seat across from Dean's, taking one last glance around before returning his attention to his brother.

"You don't find this weird?" Sam asked.

"What?" Dean had not looked up, but seemed rather interested in a certain section of the menu, the subheading of which read 'pies.'

"All of it. Our car and equipment inexplicably die at the town limits. The clock is frozen, and you heard what Morgan Jones said - no one comes to Storybrooke and no one leaves."

Dean looked up at him, his expression one of ennui. "All small towns are weird, Sam - it's an unwritten law of hunting. You have a sleepy, normal little place like this that's all cute and cozy on the surface, but you dig deep enough and there's some weird shit. Most of our cases so far have been in small towns like this one; the smaller the town, the bigger the secret, and the bigger the secret, the more difficult the case."

Sam quirked a brow. "So you think we do have a case here?"

Dean shrugged and leaned back casually in his seat. "Who knows? I gotta admit that there's something strange going on here, and you know what? It probably is paranormal. But if it is, I get the feeling that this is something we've yet to deal with."

Sam opened his mouth to reply, but a tall, beautiful young woman in a waitress uniform - or at least her version, which included a slightly revealing top and tight red skirt, complete with heels and red streaks in her dark hair - had come to stand beside the table. Dean smiled charmingly at her.

"Hi, I'm Ruby," she announced, returning his smile. "You guys are new here."

It wasn't a question, but an observation. Unlike her fellow Storybrooke residents, however, she seemed more intrigued than suspicious. Her interest proper was assisted by the fact that she found the two extremely attractive.

"Uh, yeah, we are. I'm Sam, this is my brother Dean. Our car broke down at the town limits."

She nodded once, the smile never leaving her face. "Well, welcome to Storybrooke. So, what can I get you?"

"I'll have a slice of apple pie with a side of yours," Dean said with a crooked grin.

She tried in vain to repress a snort, and looked at Sam. "And you, Sam?"

"Just a salad, please."

"Coming right up." She accepted the menus from them and walked away. Dean watched, unsure if he liked her best when she was coming or when she was going.

Sam suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. "Dean, can you please pay attention for five minutes?"

Dean turned his head, albeit reluctantly, to face Sam. "What?"

"Maybe we have a case here. What if Dad's here? There's got to be a reason why he sent us coordinates to a town that, according to the government, doesn't even exist. Also, do you remember the two letters he sent us with the coordinates?"

Dean's blank expression was a clear indication that he did not.

"The letters," Sam continued, showing Dean a napkin on which he'd written the message, "are SB. Storybrooke. Dad knew this place was here. The question is, what would he be doing in a place like Storybrooke?"

"You think the demon's here? That son of a bitch that killed our mother is here?"

Sam shrugged. "It's possible."

"If that's true, where the hell is Dad?"

With a sigh, Sam rubbed his face with both of his hands, tired and frustrated. "I don't know. But I wish I did."

* * *

_The deck was silent, just as Morgan had seen through the telescope. She was not the only one who had disembarked from the Queen Anne's Revenge, as several members of her crew had followed their captain onto the abandoned merchantman. Among these was one Mr. Doyle, who had been a loyal first mate under her father, and had transferred his loyalties to her upon Edward's death. He was more of a grandfather to her than a first mate; he was tall, well-muscled, and though he was no longer young, his vitality and strength belied his years. His face was worn and weathered from a lifetime on the sea and under the unforgiving sun, and to many others it was a frightening face, but to her, it was as kindly and familiar as a favorite uncle or grandfather._

_She turned to the group of crewman standing behind her, awaiting her orders. They knew better than to defy their captain; woman or not, she was not a force one would want to reckon with. _

_"Search the ship," she commanded. "From crow's nest to bilges. Go!"_

_They scrambled off to do her bidding, while she, followed by Doyle, climbed up a small flight of nearby steps to the helm. The ship was a beautiful one; she was small for a merchantman, but Morgan knew the ship would glide beautifully across the sea. Morgan lifted her hand to the wheel, skating her fingertips along the wood, warmed by the afternoon sun. She looked up, however, upon hearing a familiar metallic click emanating from Doyle's vicinity. He stood with flintlock in hand, its barrel aimed at her. Her pale green eyes widened._

_"Doyle?" she gasped._

_It was then that, through her weskit and blouse, she felt the sharp, cold steel of a sword point at her lower back._

_"This ship is mine," hissed an accented voice from behind her._

* * *

Adrian sat at the kitchen table, finishing up the last of his homework, while Morgan sat beside him to assist him. She had rested her arm on the back of her son's chair, and she was observing as he worked on the final problem on his math assignment.

"Mom?"

She brushed the hair back from his eyes. "What is it, sweetheart?"

"How did the Winchesters make it into Storybrooke? I thought people don't come in or leave."

She was not entirely unprepared for the question - Adrian was an inquisitive child, and as such she expected him to ask it. Yet, for some reason, she found herself taken slightly aback. "I don't know. Strangers usually don't come to Storybrooke, probably because we aren't on a map. Storybrooke is a small town; maps don't usually list a town of this size. Maybe it's because no one knows we're here."

It was, at face value, a perfectly logical explanation. Yet how could Morgan explain to him that they were trapped, that this town was a prison that had taken captive both the residents and time itself, that their current predicament was her own sister's doing?

"Mom, are you in there?"

She started from her reverie. "I'm sorry. Are you finished with your work?"

He nodded.

"Good. I'll check it for you, but you're up past your bedtime. You need to go and get ready for bed."

"Okay." He slid off the chair and crossed the kitchen to the door, but paused and turned to face her. "Does this mean more people will come to visit Storybrooke?"

Morgan, who had been scanning his homework for errors, looked up at him. "I'm not sure."

Killian at that moment entered the kitchen, ruffling his son's hair. "You're up late."

"Yeah, I just finished my homework. Mom's checking it."

"Did she tell you to go get ready for bed?"

The little boy nodded his dark head. "Mmhm."

"Listen to your mother, Ace. Wouldn't want the both of us to get in trouble, would you?"

"Why would you get in trouble, Dad?"

"You're up late and I'm letting you do it," Killian grinned.

"And this is the part where I banish my husband to the couch for aiding in the delinquency of a minor," Morgan chided sarcastically from her chair.

"Of course she's going to ban-wait, what?"

"Going to bed now, 'night!" Adrian announced before rushing up the stairs, his footfalls pounding on the hardwood as he went.

Killian chuckled and shook his head, then looked at his wife with an expression that greatly resembled that of a lost puppy. "You're going to banish me from our bed?"

She smirked at him as she began putting their son's school things into his backpack. "Maybe."

In three strides he was behind her; he had wrapped his arms around her waist from behind, and she could feel his lips, warm and soft, ghost across her ear as he whispered, "You wouldn't do that to me, would you?"

"Maybe I would." She was melting against him, though this was a game they often played, if only for the sake of their own amusement.

"Now that's not very nice." His lips skated across her earlobe, to her jaw, her cheek, and finally the corner of her lips. She turned her head towards his, granting him greater access to her lips; he was more than happy to oblige her. He kissed her deeply, passionately, pressing her back against his chest with his right hand, while with the back of his left he caressed her side. She returned his affections in earnest, parting her lips to allow him to deepen the kiss even further.

A sharp, frantic knock at the front door, however, shattered the spell they had begun to weave. With an angry sigh, Killian released his wife, while Morgan, also annoyed at having been interrupted, stormed to the door and nigh threw it open. To her surprise, she found Regina Mills, her sister and mayor of Storybrooke, standing at her front door, her eyes wild with worry.

"Regina?" Morgan asked. "What's wrong?"

"It's Henry."

"Your son? What's going on?"

"He's gone!"


	3. Duels and Decisions

A/N: I own only Morgan, Doyle, and others that do not appear in the canon. All else (c) ABC/Disney et al. This chapter is a flashback, as indicated by italics.

* * *

Chapter 3 - Duels and Decisions

_"This ship is mine," hissed an accented voice from behind Morgan._

_She froze as warm breath tickled the sensitive flesh of her ear; the sword point at her lower back was urged forward ever so slightly, as if to confirm that this was no simple threat. She turned her head to somehow get a better look at her attacker. She did not know why, but who she saw surprised her. The attractive young man behind her was taller than she was, by about five inches, with piercing, sea-blue eyes that held her steadily in their gaze; challenging and unwavering as his gaze was, she was not about to let this man intimidate her._

_"She was abandoned," Morgan stated as-a-matter-of-factly._

_"No," he returned, "we had to make berth here at the cove."_

_"Why?"_

_"That, my dear, is none of your concern."_

_She felt the sword point at her back being pulled away, but only slightly. She looked over at Doyle, who had his flintlock aimed at the man behind her._

_"Tell your mate to lower his gun, and I'll lower my sword," the man continued, casting a brief glance to her first mate._

_Morgan, who still had her eyes on Doyle, gave a terse nod. Reluctantly he lowered the pistol, but did not holster it._

_"What are you doing here, lass?" the man had grasped her arm and, despite her struggle, had wheeled her round to face him. His hard gaze softened, if only to such a degree as to be nigh undetectable._

_He found himself looking into eyes of pale green, and the woman who owned them was just as beautiful. Her skin, fair despite her profession, provided a striking but not unattractive contrast to her wavy, pitch-dark hair, which was gathered at the back of her head in a half-ponytail._

_"Now, tell me," he continued, inwardly flustered at having caught himself staring, "Why are you here on my ship?"_

_"Taking it," was her abrupt reply. She seemed unafraid - which, though he thought it admirable, he also thought it stupid. Clearly this woman did not know who he was, otherwise she would not be challenging him so._

_The smirk he gave her was nothing short of arrogant, and immediately she grew annoyed. How dare he-!_

_"There's only one way to take my ship from me, darling." His voice was husky and his face a mere few inches from hers, yet she refused to stand down, which seemed to both amuse and annoy him. "And that is to kill me."_

_A small smile, as malicious as it was charming, crept across her lips. "Everything comes with a price."_

_His own arrogant smile faded and his jaw set. She could see him tense, and her smile grew wider in triumph._

_"The hell it does," he growled._

_In an instant, she drove her knee into his abdomen, causing him to stumble backwards a few steps. It was enough to allow her to draw her sword, and in one smooth motion she raised above her head, prepared to strike. She brought it down swiftly, but to her surprise, metal scraped against metal. The man had blocked her attack, and now the conceited smile had returned to his face._

_"You give yourself too much credit, lass," he said smoothly, "although I must hand it to you - you're a brave one. Not many would dare raise their sword to Killian Jones."_

_The name sounded familiar to her, but then it sounded familiar to almost everyone who had some involvement with pirates; Killian had certainly garnered a reputation for himself over the years - handsome, but a formidable opponent in battle, with a taste for good rum and women. One did not want the man as his enemy._

_"You?" She drew her sword back. "You're Killian Jones?"_

_He bowed, his movements elegant and flowing. "At your service." He straightened again. "I'm afraid that I didn't catch your name."_

_His pleasantries annoyed her more than his arrogance did, and she did nothing to conceal it. "I didn't give it."_

_"Pity, as I'd like to know the name of the only woman who has ever dared to cross me." With that, he lunged forward, blade in hand. She planted her feet squarely on the deck, bracing herself to parry his attack. She was successful in doing so, but just barely, as she had underestimated his speed. The two rushed one another, and were soon pitched in battle. The sound of metallic scraping and clanging reverberated over the deck as they fought, each parrying and blocking the other's blows. The ensuing thrusts and blows were exchanged and parried with almost lightning speed. Morgan, much to Killian's dismay and surprise, had little trouble keeping up with him._

_At great length, Killian was able to gain the upper hand when he lunged, knocking Morgan off her balance._

_"Excellent form, darling," he commented, struggling to keep his voice steady in lieu of his exertion. "But you're still not taking my ship."_

_With that, he turned his back to her and made to walk to the helm, which was now directly behind him. Morgan realized this with angry amazement and, with a swift, vicious overhand maneuver, she hurled her sword at him. The blade buried itself in the mast beside him, just an inch to the left of his head. He stopped dead in his tracks when he registered this, and he turned his head slowly to look at her, forgetting to conceal his surprise. From the left corner of his vision, he saw that Doyle's expression had changed from angry and challenging to triumphant and smug._

_"'atta girl, Morgan," he murmured under his breath._

_Killian overheard it, glancing between Doyle and Morgan, and back again._

_"Next time," Morgan said as calmly as if she'd been discussing the weather, "I won't miss."_

_Killian turned to fully face her now, smirking once again despite her threat. "That's all very well and good, lass, but there are two problems: one, you have no weapon now, and two, there won't be a next time."_

_He barked out a few orders, and within moments his crew stormed up onto the deck. To her dismay, she found that his crew, on his orders, had taken hers captive - some of her crew were in chains, others were disarmed and unable to move due to their opponents' vice-like grips on their arms. Doyle, too, had been taken prisoner, his rapier and flintlock now in the possession of a burly-looking crewman of Killian's._

_In a graceful stride, Killian stood before Morgan again, looking exultant despite the fact that the duel had ended in a draw. "I may be a pirate, but I'm still a gentleman - I have a code. I daresay that you have some impressive skill, my dear lady." The last was said with a hint of disdain and sarcasm._

_She was tempted to spit in his face, but as she had no weapon and her crew were subjugated, she could not afford to do something so reckless. She remained silent, but she could feel her anger evolving into rage, and she struggled to keep it in check - she could not allow herself to lose control, otherwise they would all be killed. Killian, in studying her countenance, blinked; her eyes had flashed a fiery amber, or so he thought, but he brushed it away as a trick of the bright sunlight. He observed her a moment further; Morgan could not read his expression, but she did not avert her eyes._

_"I'm going to give you a choice," he began, straightening slightly, almost as if to look down his nose at her. "You can either join my crew, or you can walk the plank."_

_She glared at him, but remained silent, much to his frustration._

_"You do realize that your fate and that of your crew depends on your answer," he continued, venom edging his tone._

_Still she said nothing, but only continued to glare. She would not allow him the satisfaction of besting her. He had the advantage, but she would not let him rejoice in it. Pride forbade any sort of submission on her account._

_At length, he commanded softly, "Take Morgan and her first mate to the brig."_

_"And the rest of the crew?" asked one of Killian's men, yanking his captive's head back to expose his throat, whereupon he immediately held the dagger to his throat._

_Killian glanced up pensively, then presently answered, "I'll deal with them myself."_

_His crew chuckled darkly, exchanging knowing glances. Killian turned his back and walked calmly up to the helm. He took the wheel and barked, "Haul anchor! Let down the sheets - let her run free!"_

_His eyes fell upon Morgan, and upon doing so, they hardened, his expression now calm but cold as ice. "Take them away."_

_Two of Killian's crew - one of them a bear of a man, the other tall and lanky - came forward. The lanky one grasped Morgan's right upper arm, and she soon felt the ice cold steel of a blade against her throat. She glanced sidelong at Doyle, and found that the larger man had taken him captive as well, a dagger at her first mate's throat. With an icy glare at Killian, and not without struggle, she and Doyle were led away and down into the dark bowels of the ship._


	4. Searching

A/N: I own only characters that do not appear in the canons. All else belongs to their respective owners.

* * *

Chapter 4 - Searching

"I'm sorry, Mayor Mills," Sheriff Graham said apologetically as he shook his head, "but it appears that Henry is not here in Storybrooke."

Regina, who had been sitting on the sofa in her living room, her hands clasped in front of her lips, slowly turned her eyes to him. He stiffened, if only slightly, and glanced to her sister, who stood at the window with her arms folded over her chest.

"What do you mean he's not here in Storybrooke?" Morgan asked, her voice calm despite the frustration present in her eyes.

"I mean we've searched everywhere and he's not there."

Morgan sighed in exasperation, biting her lower lip, as was her habit when she was this frustrated. She, too, had searched - Henry's castle on the shore, the woods just beyond the town, the diner, the hotel. It had been fruitless, but she hoped that Killian, who had taken over the search from her so that she could go to Regina, would be more successful.

Adrian sat in a chair across from the sofa, hunched over slightly with his arms wrapped around his middle. Morgan walked over to him and sat down on the chair's arm, brushing the dark hair from his eyes.

"What's on your mind, Ace?" she murmured.

"Why won't you let me go search with Dad?" he asked as he looked up at her. "Henry's my cousin."

"Because it's too dangerous for you to be out there after dark, especially in the woods. Trust me when I say that if Henry is indeed here in Storybrooke, your father will find him."

Adrian fell into pensive silence, his expression unreadable. Morgan turned her eyes to Regina, whose brow was furrowed in concern. She knew her sister was beyond worried, yet was remaining as calm as she possibly could - it was not like Regina to display what she was truly feeling, and, despite herself, Morgan felt her hand clench into a tight fist.

_Damn you, Cora. All of this - every bit of it - goes back to you, _she thought, her teeth clenched.

"Mom?"

Her son's voice startled her from her thoughts and she looked down at him. "Hm?"

"You okay?"

She swallowed the heated lump in her throat, hoping to whatever gods that may have been out there that her eyes had not conveyed how angry she had become. She had gotten better at controlling it, yet it did slip through every now and again. "I'm fine, sweetheart."

"Is there anywhere else we could possibly look?" Regina asked no one in particular.

Morgan looked up at Graham. "Have you checked his computer?"

He looked somewhat sheepish, leaving Morgan to believe the answer to her question was indeed no. She scoffed, but it was under her breath so that Graham had an excuse to ignore it. He had to admit it was an egregious oversight on his part, and the last thing he wanted was to have a mistake cost an innocent child his life.

* * *

Dean reclined on the bed, his arms folded behind his head and his eyes closed. He was exhausted; they had been on job after job, almost non-stop, for the past two weeks. This latest development, brought about by the coordinates and their entrance to Storybrooke, had sent his mind whirling, had only served to tire him further.

Sam, however, had taken his laptop out of its bag and was now scrolling. They had internet access, though the signal was sketchy, and he was growing slightly annoyed with the frequent outages. His searching had so far turned out fruitless; he could find no information on this town, or indeed, any proof that it actually existed.

"Something weird is going on here, Dean," he said, not looking up at his brother, as he continued to scroll through search engine results.

"Hm?" Dean was paying little attention.

"There's absolutely no information on this town," Sam continued. "I've looked. No official town website, no reviews on the B and B, absolutely nothing. It's like this town, according to the rest of the world, doesn't even exist."

Dean opened one eye. "Are you serious?"

"As a heart attack."

Dean made to reply, but was interrupted when a series of sharp knocks sounded at the door. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and rose, crossing the room. "Okay, okay, I'm coming. Jesus Christ."

He opened the door and, to his surprise, found Killian standing in the hallway, eyeing them both with suspicion, despite his cool demeanor.

"Killian?" Sam asked from where he sat at the table. "What're you doing here?"

"I'm looking for my nephew," Killian replied. "He seems to have left town."

Dean glanced at Sam over his shoulder, then returned his attention to Killian. "I thought you said people don't come or go."

"They usually don't, and yet, here you are." Killian's accented voice was cold now, laced with a hint of frustration and suspicion. He reached into the pocket of his leather jacket and pulled out a wallet-sized picture. He handed it to Dean. "That's him. His name's Henry; he was last seen early this morning, walking to school."

Dean continued to stare at the picture, trying to place the boy. "Sorry, but we haven't seen him. The only kid we've seen is your son."

Sam had risen from his chair and was now standing just behind Dean, looking over his shoulder at the picture of a young boy with dark hair and dark eyes.

"Was he in school at all today, Mr. Jones?" Sam asked.

"It's Killian, and yes, as far as I know, he was."

"And you said he's your nephew?"

He nodded. "Yes. My sister-in-law's son."

"And what's her name?"

"Regina Mills - she's the mayor of this town."

Dean glanced at Sam. "The mayor of the town and she can't even keep an eye on her own kid?"

Sam shot him a warning look.

"The town is larger than you might think, Winchester," Killian snapped. "If I were you, I'd be sure to remember that."

* * *

Morgan had climbed the stairs of her sister's home, and, with Regina's permission, had entered Henry's room. Graham, Regina, and Adrian accompanied her. Morgan sat down at Henry's desk and turned on his computer, while Regina placed her hands on Adrian's shoulders. Graham had taken to looking around the room, searching for any signs or irregularities.

"Smart kid you've got there, Regi," Morgan acknowledged as she clicked on Henry's empty inbox. "He cleared out his inbox." She clicked on an icon that looked like a clock in the top corner, and her lips curled into a small smile. "But he didn't clear his history."

She scanned the cache, finding nothing of relevance or value to the circumstances, until she got towards the bottom of the list, the more recent websites he'd visited. One in particular had caught her attention: a site called Who's Your Mama. She clicked on the link, and with a few more clicks, she brought up a transaction report.

"I'm assuming Henry doesn't have a credit card," she said to Regina, though she didn't look at her.

Regina looked at her sister incredulously. "He's _ten_. I wouldn't give him a card any sooner than you would give one to Adrian."

Morgan clicked once, twice, three times more. "Two hundred fifty dollars was recently charged to a credit card belonging to Mary Margaret Blanchard for this site's services."

"Miss Blanchard is our teacher," Adrian piped up.

Morgan printed the transaction record and handed it to Graham. "I doubt she'd press charges, but it's still in our best interest to keep records anyway."

He nodded and accepted the paper from her.

"Adrian," Regina said as she knelt before him so as to get to his level, "has Henry said anything about finding the woman who gave birth to him?"

Adrian shook his head sadly. "He hasn't talked to me very much since Miss Blanchard gave him that book."

"Book? What book?"

"A book of fairy tales. Miss Blanchard gave it to him and he started saying that you were the Evil Queen from Snow White, and that Mom and Dad were evil pirates."

Regina's eyes slowly traveled upwards to meet Morgan's; Morgan had stiffened, but the motion was hardly visible.

"I think we should talk to Miss Blanchard, then," Regina said finally.

* * *

Emma Swan looked at the little boy in the passenger seat beside her. On his lap was a large, open book, and he was now flipping through it.

"Here's the deal, kid," Emma said, returning her eyes to the road. "I'm going to drop you off at your mom's and that'll be that. I'm not staying."

"But you have to!" Henry protested. "Everything in this book really happened."

"That's a book of fairy tales."

"Yeah but they're true. Everyone in my town is in this book."

Emma quirked a brow. She was tempted to say he was crazy, but she did have to stop and wonder whether he actually did have some sort of mental illness or disorder. She didn't want to antagonize or patronize him, but she thought his claims downright absurd, as any rational person would. Fairy tales were just that; they belonged in books and in Disney movies, not reality.

"My mom is the Evil Queen from Snow White," Henry began, pointing her out on a page in the book. "And my aunt and uncle are pirates. My uncle is Captain Hook and-"

"Wait. What? Captain Hook, as in _the_ Captain Hook?"

Henry nodded. Whether he caught her incredulity or not, he seemed rather pleased, for he was smiling at her. "Yep."

"And your aunt?"

"She's Captain Hook's wife and the Evil Queen's sister."

Emma turned, a little too sharply, onto the exit ramp. "Captain Hook was never married, not in the original stories."

"The original stories are wrong," Henry countered, flipping forward a few pages in the book. "He got married to the Evil Queen's sister, and they have a son."

"Okay, this is just getting really, really out there. Captain Hook was never married, the Evil Queen never had a sister."

"How do you know? You said you don't believe in fairy tales."

Emma looked at him, her mouth opened as if to protest, but she shut it again and turned her eyes to the road. It was pointless arguing with him; if he was convinced that these stories were true, that was for a psychologist to deal with. That was out of her area of expertise. Whether or not he was her son, as he had initially claimed when he had shown up at her apartment, was a whole other story.

"I don't," she replied at length, her voice barely above a whisper. "I don't believe a word of it."


	5. Welcome to the Crew

_A/N: I own Morgan only, as well as chara cters who don't appear in either canon. Italics indicate flashbacks._

* * *

_Chapter 5 - Welcome to the Crew_

_The brig was dark, smelling heavily of r otting wood, mold, and seawater, with o n ly tiny cracks in between the planks o f the hull to provide illumination in th e form of slivers of sunlight. The re st of the light, inadequate as it was, c ame f rom the oil lamps hanging at evenl y-s pac ed intervals throughout the brig . _

_Morgan grasped the rusted bars, tighteni ng her fists around them until her knuc k les whitened. She violently rattled t h e door of her cage, the metallic jolts r ev erberating dully through the dimne ss. _

_"Come back here and let me out, you assh ole!" she barked at the crewman who had forced her into the cell. He was now wa l king up the stairs at the far end of t he brig, but upon hearing her demand, he p aused in mid-step and turned his bo dy sl ightly to look at her. _

_"And have me jollies chopped off for dis obeyin' the cap'n? No fuckin' thank ye, lass."_

_Before she could protest further, he lum bered up the sodden steps. With a soft, angry growl, she gave the bars a final j erk. She crossed the cell to a darkene d corner and folded her arms._

_"Damn you all," she hissed to no one. _

_The rage that had taken up residence in the pit of her stomach had begun to swel l, a heavy, oily feeling that was alway s accompanied by a surge of adrenaline t h at seared through her veins. The tip s of her fingers burned and tingled, and a t once her rage turned to fear. Despe rat el y she fought to extinguish the da rk e ner gy that was seeking to burst fo rth f rom her._

_"No," she choked out, tightening her arm s around her middle. She doubled over, a s if she had been punched in the stoma ch . Her hands had balled into fists, a n d s he dug her nails into her palm. Sh e focu sed on the pain in an effort to f or ce th e energy into the dark abyss of he r mind , back into the cage she swor e sh e would never unlock. She knew she had d rawn bl ood when she felt liquid, warm a nd stick y, beginning to trickle lightly down her skin. "Not here." Her v oice wa s barely above a pained whisper, pleadin g with th e shadow that was alw ays becko ning to he r, always inside he r, just be hind the ve il of consciousne ss and cont rol. She kne w it was waitin g patiently, as if to say , I had you on ce, Morgan, and I can take you back agai n._

_However, at her will, the energy retreat ed, leaving a dull hum singing in her b l ood that caused her scalp to tingle a n d the hairs on her arms to stand on en d. _

_She hated the magic._

_She was reminded so much of the woman wh o had carried her, had given her life, o nly to use it as nothing more than a p aw n in an effort to gain wealth and po w er. Her mother had been relentless in wh at she deemed "discipline." Morgan ha d n ot escaped her mother unscarred. Mor gan hat ed her, loathed her, wanted noth ing more than to see her dead. She abhor red her for what she had done to Regina, Mor gan' s beloved half-sister, as well as t o Mor gan herself. But what chance did M organ possibly have against a wit ch like Cora Mills? _

_She found the bitter sting of mourning a nd grief rising up inside her. She miss e d her father dearly; she loved him, a d or ed him, and turned to him for shelt er fr om the nightmares that had plagued h er a lmost incessantly since her girl hoo d. Sh e would never admit it aloud, as s he cou ld not afford to show weakne ss. W eakness incited insolence, which o nly le d to di ssension and, finally, mu tiny. M organ ha d ruled her ship with a n iron f ist and t olerated nothing of t he sort f rom her cr ew._

_'Former crew,' she thought bitterly. 'I' m sure the bastards would have switched loyalties by now.'_

_Creaks and a soft groan alerted her of a nother presence in the darkness. She wh i rled round, reaching for the dagger a t h er hip, yet, to her chagrin, found t h at Killian had confiscated it. _

_"Shit," she cursed under her breath. _

_With a frustrated growl, she looked towa rds the stairwell that led to the upper deck. The door had opened and she watch e d as several men were corralled like l iv estock down into the dankness of th e bri g by several of Killian's crew. Sh e reco gnized the others as members of h er crew . She straightened with a frown, w alking over to the bars and gripping the m tigh tly in her palms. Her men wer e he rded - shoved was a more appropriat e ter m - int o a cell across the way fr om her s. With a loud, rattling click, t he door was loc ked again and Killian's men wer e gone. O ne of his men met her gaze, an d she shot him a lethal glare, as if dar ing him to speak or protest. H e quickly averted hi s eyes, turning his back to h er and foll owing his comrade s up the st airs. The co rners of her li ps turned up wards slightl y; it was a s mall triumph, but a triumph nonetheless. _

_Once they had gone, she turned back to t he remnants of her own crew. Where were the others? She had had at least a doze n men, yet now all that remained were f i v e._

_"Cap'n?" Doyle's voice was hoarse, hardl y an audible whisper._

_"Doyle?" she asked, watching as he stepp ed closer to the bars of his cell so as to see her better. He looked worse for w ear, but was otherwise unharmed; the o th ers in the cell with him were in a s i mil ar state. Some of them had cuts on t heir faces, however, and she assumed the y ha d tried to fight. _

_"Where's the rest of the crew?" she aske d at length._

_Doyle shook his head. "Dead. Jones said he wanted to make an example of 'em for ye."_

_Morgan's teeth ground almost painfully t ogether._

_"D'you think he'll kill us as well?" The question was a simple one, but it was e nough to prompt a jolt from Morgan._

_She knew very well it had been her pride that had resulted in her crewmen's deat hs; her pride and her defiance had cost men their lives, and she knew she had j e opardized their lives as well. Yet sh e h ad no answer for him, at least not a sat isfactory one._

_"I don't know," she murmured, resting he r forehead against the cold, rusty bars . She had not made her decision; she ha d promised Killian Jones absolutely noth i n g. She knew he was well within his p ow er to renege on his proposal and kill he r out of spite or boredom - she knew he wa s not above that, despite his ins iste nce that he was a gentleman with a code. Sh e felt powerless, and she hated it. It w as all to reminiscent of those year s she had spent with her dear, swe et mot her. _

_"That son of a bitch," she hissed under her breath._

_"Such language for a lady," came a rebuk e from the stairwell. Morgan's head sna p ped upwards, and said 'son of a bitch ' w as standing against one of the woode n po sts near her cell. He leaned casual l y ba ck against it, one leg crossed ov er the other and his arms folded over hi s chest . His hook glinted in the dim li gh t; she had noticed it during their du el, but n ow that she had no weapon, she fo und her self keeping an eye on it. H is a ttention was focused on her, and he was smirking with his usual damnable ar rogan ce. "Esp ecially since I've spared their lives as well as yours."_

_"I thought I smelled a rat," she snapped . _

_His smirk faded slightly. "Careful, girl . You and I still need to have a proper discussion." His tone was dark, one of w arning, and his voice was low. _

_"Indeed, and I'm so looking forward to i t." Her words were dripping with sarcas m , and it certainly was not lost to hi m . His smirk had been wiped from his fa ce , and now he was glaring at her almos t m ur derously._

_"You appear to be ignorant of how it wor ks on my ship, love. Allow me to explai n it to you." He took only two strides b e fore he was in front of her cell. He r ea ched through it with his hand. He gra bbe d the collar of her blouse and p ulle d he r roughly forward with a swift jerk . His face was inches from hers, h is bre ath w arm and tinted with good ru m, and his ey es hard and cold as ice. " I do no t toler ate insolence of any sor t on my ship. Yo u do realize I could ki ll you r ight now. My only reservation i n doing s o is that you could yet prove to be usef ul to me. "_

_"I refuse to be your whore."_

_He smirked again, but it was purely mali cious rather than arrogant. "Don't flat t er yourself, darling."_

_"You should probably kill me," she hisse d. "Because I swear, I will slice you o p en from balls to brain, and I will no t b e satisfied until the deck is bathed in your blood."_

_His eyes narrowed and flashed angrily. H e had had men defy him, and he had, wit h no compunction, sent them to a watery g rave with his own hand. His annoyance wa s far gone, as was any anger; he was fur ious. He took great pride in contro l ling his emotions, at least outwardly, b ut t his woman..._

_Good God this woman. She was making it s o damn difficult._

_"Your empty threats don't scare me, love ," he murmured, his voice low, husky, a n d edged with pure venom. "How do you d ar e defy me? I'm allowing you to live , and yet here you are, insisting on thr ow ing it back in my face like an ungrat efu l, spoiled brat. Do not make me regr e ecision."_

_Her icy glare never wavered, nor did her determination. Her voice came out in a hiss as she replied, "I don't make threa ts, Captain. I make promises."_

_"We'll see about that, won't we?" He rel eased the collar of her blouse, and she pushed away from the bars so as to put d istance between them. He took several sm all steps backward, away from her cel l, and he allowed his eyes to wander ov e r h er form. She had seen that look in m en's eyes before; he was interested. How dar e he look at her that way!_

_"So, gentlemen," he began, turning his b ack to her to look at the survivors of h er crew, "I'll make you the same offe did for your utterly charming captai n." He paused, throwing her a glance ove r his shoulder, and could not suppress a s mirk as she rolled her eyes and turned h er back to him. He returned his attent i on to the men in the cell before him. " Join my crew, or walk the plank."_

_"I stay where the captain stays," Doyle said, not bothering to conceal the defia nce edging his tone. Morgan had to figh t the urge to smile. Doyle was steadfas t in his loyalties once he declared them , and he was faithful to the very last d r o p of blood to whomever had the fortu ne o f gaining said loyalty. If he did j oi n J ones's crew, he would never be lo yal to him, not as long as Morgan was al ive . He was all she had left, and for t hat she was thankful._

_"Fine," Killian answered curtly. "And I suppose the rest of you concur?"_

_The murmurs of agreement emanating from the cell indicated that they did._

_"Well, then, gents, you had best get com fortable in your cells," he said, promp t ing Morgan to glance over her shoulde r a t him. His gaze flicked to and held h ers , and she could see his jaw tense, p roof that he was struggling to check his irr itation. "You're going to be dow n h ere q uite a while." With that, he s pun on his heel and left, tearing his ga ze a way fr om hers with no hesitancy. S he sc owled, leaning against the bars an d fold ing her arms over her breasts, in much t he same manner as Killian had st ood. Thi s did n ot escape Doyle's notic e, but he decided not to comment on it._

_For several days, Morgan and her crew we re forced to do little more than twiddl e their thumbs or sit on their hands. M o r gan found herself often daydreaming of t he ways she could kill Jones, given t he opportunity. _

_"I wonder, Doyle," she said one day, "wh at manner of death would be fitting for our dear Captain Jones? Shall I keelhau l him? Use the rat cage? Draw and quart e r , hang from the mizzenmast?"_

_Doyle grinned. "Whatever ye deem appropr iate, Captain. But if ye insist on scow l ing so deeply, that pretty face of ye r s is bound to be permanently set that wa y. "_

_She ignored the last. She tried desperat ely to keep her mind focused on other m a tters, yet it always found its way ba c k to Jones, inciting familiar rage to bo il up from the depths inside her._

_At length, she came to the conclusion th at, at this point, there was no other o p tion - she would have to agree to his te rms. Her instincts of self-preservat i on demanded nothing short of complianc e, if only for the time being. Her pride i nsi sted on overshadowing this instin ct, how ever, and for an entire day she pac ed ba ck and forth in her cell, warr ing with h erself. She was a pirate capt ain, one of the most feared captains to ever roam t he seas; she had earned the repu tation w ith her own merit, instead of s imply rid ing the coattails of her late father's n ame. Yet she found hers elf tr apped in th e bowels of another p irate's ship with o nly one option._

_It was enough to make her want to rip he r hair out._

_Her reflections were interrupted as a pi rate with long, dark, stringy hair desc e nded into the brig with a tray in his ha nd. It was the same man that had bee n as signed the duty of bringing food, w h ich consisted of meager crumbs and can te ens of water passed through rusty iro n b ars. He had made the mistake of open ing the door the first day; she had trie d to bol t, but the situation had ended with a kn ife to her throat and her bein g sh oved r oughly back into the cell. T he pi rate no w spoke nothing to her, bu t inst ead gave her a warning look, just as he had done over the course of the p ast sev eral day s. It was needless; she well un derstood the message. _

_"You," she barked at him as he turned to her crew's cell across from her. He tur ned to glance at her. "Yes, you," she s n apped. "I'd like to speak with Captai n J ones."_

_He approached her and merely grunted, pr ompting her to scowl. _

_"I assure you I'm serious," she continue d. "Let me speak to your captain."_

_"Why?" His voice was low and almost gutt ural. She rolled her eyes in exasperati o n at such a stupid question which, in he r mind, more than justified the answ e r s he was to give._

_"To discuss paint colors. The moldy blac k and green down here clashes with the a mbient lighting," she answered, her vo ic e dripping heavily with sarcasm. "Wh y th e hell do you think? Never mind, it ' s no ne of your concern. Tell your cap ta in I wish to speak with him."_

_He gave her a hardened look, which she r eturned. He said nothing as he went, ye t she knew he would take Jones her mess a g e._

_Presently a large, muscular pirate, who she recognized as the boatswain, descend ed the dark staircase. He whipped out a ring of keys from his pocket and unlock e d the cell, its door creaking loudly o n its old, rusty hinges._

_"Cap'n accepts yer audience," the boatsw ain said. "I'm to escort ye."_

_She folded her arms under her breasts, a nd with an approving gesture with her r i ght hand, said smoothly, "By all mean s ." _

_The boatswain reached to grab her, but s he jerked out of his reach, glaring con t emptuously. "Unless you insist on kee p in g that hand, I suggest you refrain fr om touching me," she snarled._

_"Yer in no position to make threats, mis sy," the boatswain hissed as he raised h is hand to strike her. _

_Inwardly she flinched, and for just a sp lit second, her eyes flickered in fear. The boatswain, however, froze, upon fee l ing a strong hand grasp his wrist rou g hl y._

_"And you're in no position to strike a w oman who has asked to speak with me." _

_Morgan and the boatswain turned, and Kil lian pushed the boatswain's hand away, f lashing his hook as a warning against an y more acts of insubordination. _

_"Aye, sir," the boatswain growled before ascending the stairs to the deck. _

_Killian, once he had gone, turned his ey es to Morgan. "Any discussions are to t a ke place in my quarters."_

_"Only of the verbal persuasion," she cou ntered, causing his left eye to twitch, however slightly._

_"You say that as if I desire to have any other sort of discussion with the likes of you."_

_"Well, do you?" She loved to watch him s quirm, and she would say anything to ga i n that satisfaction._

_He leaned forward, his lips a hair's bre adth away from hers, and replied curtly , "No." He straightened. "Follow me, an d don't you dare argue with me, or I wil l have you keelhauled before you can bli n k ."_

_For once, she silenced, though more out of interest of self-preservation than ac tually being chastised. She followed hi m up the stairs, onto the deck, and int o the lounge of the captain's quarters. H e r presence on the deck drew the eyes a nd interest of the men, despite that she w as being escorted by the captain. She ig nored them all, raising her chin and dra wing her shoulders back. They we re not w orthy of her attentions._

_Once they had entered the captain's quar ters, Killian closed the door. He walke d to a chair behind a large desk, propp i n g his boots up on the desktop and le an in g back on the legs of the chair. H e w as completely at ease, though she kn e as not stupid enough to let his guar d do wn. Though he was at ease, she was n ot, and he sensed it._

_"You'll have to forgive them," he said a t length, folding his arms over his che s t. "They can be a bit...how do you sa y , uncouth."_

_She said nothing in reply._

_"Now then, I was informed you wished to speak with me."_

_In her veins she felt a strange humming, one she had yet to feel. She knew this wasn't of the magical persuasion - it di dn't carry with it the ominous feeling o f impending destruction. It was almost …p leasurable, this soft singing that w a s n ow coursing through her body. It w as fai nt, but she could feel it. She li gh tly s hook her hand to dispel the fee lin g, tho ugh the gesture was a futile one. Killia n quirked one dark brow at t his strange action, though didn't vocall y ac knowledg e it._

_"I did want to speak to you," she replie d, straightening so she stood at her fu l l height. "Regarding the offer."_

_"What offer would that be?" He had turne d his attention to his nails, but he la z ily cast his eyes up at her. The humm i ng inside her increased in its intensi ty , however slightly. _

_Dammit, she thought. Not now._

_"The offer to join your crew," she answe red as-a-matter-of-factly, biting back t he sarcasm she was so tempted to spit at him. "Does it still stand?"_

_The right corner of his lips turned upwa rd slightly in that familiar, arrogant s mirk. He knew he had won. "Aye, it doe s. "_

_He rose with the elegance of a well-bred gentleman, though she knew him to be a scoundrel. Within two strides he was sta nding before her, only a few inches tal l er. He was close enough that she coul d s mell him - spicy masculinity combine d wi th the fresh tang of the sea, with f aint notes of good rum. Her pale green e yes met his; she was thoroughly irrit ate d by that arrogant smirk that still grac ed h is lips, yet she could not aff ord t o all ow her sense of diplomacy to slip. It wo uld not be to her advantage ; she knew th at they were in his territ ory, a nd any s ort of infraction could result in being banished to the brig or death f or her an d her crew. _

_"Then I accept the offer," she said smoo thly. "However, I have two conditions." _

_"Name them." His voice, like hers, was s mooth and calm, almost as if they were d iscussing the weather, but his eyes bu rn ed into hers, challenging her._

_"One, my crew is not to be harmed. They may be incorporated into your crew for t he sake of simplicity, but they will st i ll be loyal to me. Two, I am not to b e h arassed by any man on this ship; I h a ve no qualms about castration."_

_The terms, to be sure, were fair indeed; he could at least respect them. They we re within his power to ensure, and a an d her crew would be a valuable ass et to him, he saw little if any reason t o di sagree to those terms she had set. _

_"I accept your terms," he said presently , taking a moment to consider them. "Th e y're reasonable enough. I can give th e o rder that you are not to be harmed o r ha rassed; my crew fear me, as well th e y sh ould, and they obey me without qu es tion. "_

_She nodded in acknowledgement of the agr eement. _

_"Welcome to the crew, _Captain." _He smirked in triumph._

_"You're a bastard, Killian Jones."_

_He placed his hand over his heart as if he had been injured. "That hurts. I spar ed your life and welcomed you aboard my ship."_

_"Welcome is hardly the word for it."_

_"I do apologize that I did not have time to organize a grand party to welcome yo u into our midst," he answered, his voi c e laced with heavy sarcasm. "Would yo u r ather I get on one knee and thank yo u pr ofusely for gracing us with your pr e senc e?"_

_The mental image of him on one knee befo re her only intensified the humming in h er blood._

_"Your crew will be released shortly," he said. "You all are to do as I say witho ut question. I tolerate no insolence. I took you out of the brig, and I can dam n well throw you right back into it."_

_"Come and try, _Captain _Jones." Her tone was nothing short of po ison._

_"Don't test me, Morgan," he snapped with a glare, his jaw tensing._

_The corners of her lips turned upward sm ile. She may be a member of his cr ew, b ut she knew who had won this round. _


	6. Savior's Advent

A/N: I own only Morgan and Adrian. All other characters belong to their respective creators.

* * *

Chapter 6 - Savior's Advent

It was with great trepidation that Emma Swan continued the meandering road, the headlights on her yellow Bug causing the pavement to glimmer. Beside her, in the passenger seat, sat quietly, still flipping through that damned book. Emma's better judgment was now screaming at her; she should have simply put the kid back on a bus or called the police. Would they have honestly believed Henry over her, particularly when it had been a closed adoption and she'd had no knowledge of where he had gone?

She slowed the car slightly as they reached the sign declaring the Storybrooke town limits. "Okay, kid, you're gonna have to tell me where to go. I don't know where I'm going."

Henry glanced up from his book. "Just keep going straight. I'll tell you where to turn."

Emma regained her previous speed, and soon she found herself at a lonely intersection in what she assumed to be the center of town. The single traffic light flashed red, then yellow, and finally green.

"Turn right," Henry directed.

She did so, and followed his instructions. The clock tower read only 8:15, yet there were very few residents out and about. She attributed it to the supposition that this town, like others of its size, was inherently early-to-bed in its routine.

At length they came upon a beautiful white-washed home, nestled back a short way behind a wrought iron gate. A stone walk led from the gate to the porch. It was larger than the others than Emma had seen on the drive. She threw the car into park and turned it off. She then removed the key from the ignition and dropped it into the pocket of her red leather jacket.

'Nice place,' she thought as she climbed out and took a moment to observe the surrounding area.

She followed Henry to the gate, where he unhooked a latch and walked, albeit hesitantly, up the stone pathway. She debated whether to follow him further, and despite her reservations, she ultimately decided to do so. Henry made no move to open the door, but instead looked at Emma. With a sigh she knocked on the door, which was answered momentarily. The woman who greeted her was dark-haired, with fair skin and striking blue eyes.

"Can I help you?" the woman asked in an accented voice.

"Hi. Um, is this your son?" Emma placed her hand on Henry's shoulder and drew him in front of her.

The woman's eyes widened. "Henry! Your mother has been looking everywhere for you!"

Emma quirked a brow as Henry cast his eyes downward. So this woman was not his mother. The woman, meanwhile, had turned her head to call out over her shoulder, "Regina!"

The sound of heels clicking on hardwood heralded another woman's arrival; she, too, was dark-haired, but of a slightly darker complexion and equally dark eyes, which widened upon seeing the little boy.

"Henry, where have you been?" she demanded. "Do you know how frightened I was? Come inside!"

Henry did so, though not without a final, almost pleading look at Emma. Emma heard the blue-eyed woman say to Henry, "Adrian and your Uncle Killian are here; please go see them, as they've been looking everywhere for you too. You had us all worried."

Begrudgingly, Henry murmured, "Yes, Aunt Morgan."

Once she was certain that Henry was inside and under proper supervision, Regina turned her attention to Emma. "Thank you for returning him to me. Why did he come to you?"

"He found me somehow - I don't know how - and just showed up at my apartment claiming to be the son I'd given up for adoption ten years ago. He refused to come back by himself, and he wouldn't be satisfied until I brought him."

"I will have a talk with him later. What's your name?"

"Emma. Emma Swan."

"Well, then, Miss Swan, would you like a drink before you get on your way?"

It seemed quite rude to refuse the woman, and Emma, in her current mood, needed a drink. With a nod, Emma stepped into the entrance hall and followed Regina into an adjacent room, the walls of which were lined with a myriad of books. In the center of the room were two plush armchairs, while under the floor-length window was a rich mahogany desk. A decanter of brandy sat idly by on one corner, and it was this decanter from which Regina poured two glasses. She handed one to Emma and saved the other for herself.

"Once again, I do sincerely apologize for my son's behavior," Regina began, raising her hip to sit on the edge of her desk. "I suppose you will want to be on your way."

"Actually, it was kind of a long drive. Is there an inn or somewhere I can stay the night?"

Regina sipped at her brandy to conceal her irritation at the proposition. She wanted the Winchesters in her town not at all, and this Swan woman even less. As far as Regina was concerned, all three of them were not visitors, but intruders - they had trespassed into the territory she ruled, and she had no desire to welcoming any such intruders.

Emma, under Regina's scrutiny, cast her eyes down to her glass, which was still partly full.

"Keep in mind, Miss Swan, that Henry is my son," Regina said at length, straightening imposingly. "You are not his mother - you signed away all rights to him when you abandoned him."

"I did not abandon him!" Emma snapped. "I couldn't have possibly taken care of him - I gave him away to give him the best chance I possibly could!"

"See that you keep that at the forefront of your mind." Regina's tone was calm in the face of Emma's annoyance, but that calmness belied the sense of anger that was present in her eyes in the form of a cold, hard veil.

"Fine," Emma muttered, rising to her feet and setting the glass, a little too hard, down on the table by the chair.

"I'll see you out." Regina, too, placed her glass on the desktop and opened the door. Emma, with a slight glare, exited the room, with Regina at her heels. The two women walked down a short hallway and into the foyer, whereupon they found Killian, Morgan, and Adrian at the door. The young boy was thrusting his arm through his black jacket while Killian was assisting his wife with hers.

"Ah, Miss Swan, before you go, allow me to introduce you." Regina's irritation had faded, however slightly, and Emma sensed this.

Adrian had finished putting his jacket on and was now in the process of zipping his jacket. "But Mom, I want to stay with Henry-"

"Henry needs to rest, love, as do you. You both have school in the morning," the woman Emma had seen before countered.

Adrian looked up at the man who stood to his right, almost pleadingly, but the man shook his dark head. "Listen to your mother, Ace."

Adrian sighed, but seemed to brighten slightly upon seeing his aunt. "Aunt Gina!"

Regina acknowledged this with a smile and a nod. "Miss Swan, this is my nephew, Adrian, my sister Morgan, and her husband Killian."

Emma smiled, albeit uneasily; Henry's accusations - his mother was the Evil Queen, and her sister and brother-in-law were evil pirates- rang almost dolefully in her mind. "Hi."

"Pleasure," Morgan returned, adjusting her leather jacket slightly. "I'm afraid we can't stay to exchange pleasantries. Our son is very tired, as are we."

Emma was struck by Morgan's cold demeanor, but did not comment; it served no purpose to draw attention to such unpleasantness, and Morgan, like her sister, did not seem like the type to enjoy such topics of conversation.

"I am not," Adrian protested with a yawn.

"I think you are," Killian answered, placing his arm around his shoulders. "Come on, Ace; out to the car."

Adrian offered another protest, but it was under his breath so that Killian and Morgan had an excuse to ignore it. Killian, using the arm around his son's shoulders, guided Adrian over the threshold and down the stone path.

"I'm so sorry for all this, Morgan," Regina said, having forgotten temporarily that Emma was there.

"It's no problem - Henry's in one piece and he's safe. Now I just have to get Adrian home."

Goodnights and goodbyes were exchanged between the sisters, and Morgan soon followed her family down the path. Emma watched as Morgan joined her husband and son at the gate, and together the three of them walked a little ways down the sidewalk until they reached a black car parked at the curb. Emma could not tell what make and model the car was from this distance in such low lighting. Adrian climbed into the back seat once the car had been unlocked; Killian slid into the driver's seat and Morgan into the passenger's. Presently, the car performed a three-point turn, and drove down the dark street.

"Nice family," Emma commented, almost tonelessly.

Regina quirked a brow at her, but did not comment on the statement. "You had best get to Granny's Bed and Breakfast. Just take a left at the end of the road and go straight for about three blocks."

Emma, sensing that Regina no longer wanted her presence, gave a short nod and walked down the path to her own yellow Bug. Once she had driven off, Regina shut the front door and leaned back against it, heaving a heavy sigh.

'Well,' she thought, 'this development has certainly thrown a wrench in my plans.'

No matter, she reassured herself as she walked to the kitchen and poured a glass of wine. Emma Swan would be of no threat to her, and she seemed to be a woman of reason; she would surely see reason and leave Storybrooke, and thus Henry.

Regina comforted herself with this thought as she took her wine up the stairs and into her own bedroom.

Graham sat at the desk in the sheriff's office, feeling his eyes growing heavy with each passing moment. He was the only one in the station, his only company being a couple of lamps that provided very little illumination. The computer on the desk in front of him had gone into sleep mode, and he was tempted to follow suit. However, he dared not do so. He had received orders to stay for a little while longer, and he dared not disobey the woman who had given them.

Presently, he heard the soft clicking of heels on the hard concrete floor, and he straightened, a little more awake. Morgan Jones emerged from the shadows of the entryway; Graham noticed that she was alone. In her hand was a single sheet of paper. She approached the desk in several smooth, graceful steps, and lay the paper down in front of him.

"What's this?" he asked, looking down at it. On it were copies of three drivers' licenses - Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester, and Emma Swan.

"I want you to run background checks on these three," Morgan said, folding her arms over her chest. "Dig as deep as you possibly can; leave no stone unturned."

"I'm surprised you've not gone to Sidney." And indeed, he was - if Regina or Morgan ever needed information, they usually employed Sidney Glass, the town reporter, to get it for them.

"He doesn't have access to all the databases like you do," Morgan answered.

"Remind me why I'm to do this?"

"Because all three of them have arrived in Storybrooke in the same night. I have no reason to trust them, and I certainly do not want my son around them."

Graham woke the computer from sleep mode with a flick of the mouse. "I'll get on it."

"See that you do. Report your findings to me as soon as possible."

He nodded and, despite himself, could not keep his eyes off of her as she walked away from his desk. He, however, quickly averted his eyes; Morgan Jones was a beautiful woman, yet she hated to be stared at, and the gods have mercy on anyone she did catch staring at her. A moment later, he heard the door open, close, and then latch. Her faint heel clicks sounded on the hard floor outside the office, and soon they faded into silence. He was alone now, but he soon fell to work. He started with the Winchesters, which proved to be an excellent undertaking, as a search through the FBI database yielded a goldmine of data on the brothers.

Morgan would be pleased.


	7. Impounded

A/N: I own only Morgan and those who appear in neither canon. Italics indicate flashbacks.

* * *

Chapter 7 - Impounded

Morning dawned bright and crisp, the faint chill of the impending autumn heavy in the air. Sam and Dean, after breakfasting at Granny's, promptly made their way to the car service shop. Several men, despite the early hour, had already begun work in the garage, including a tall, dark-haired man standing at a dark blue Ford, preparing to open the door. Upon seeing the brothers, however, he straightened, looking at them with slight suspicion.

"Can I help you boys?" the man asked, wiping his hands on his dingy, faded blue work uniform. The name patch just above his right breast read 'Michael.'

"My name's Sam, this is Dean," Sam began, motioning appropriately to his brother, who stood slightly to the right and just behind him. "Our car died last night at the town limits, and we need to get it towed so it can be worked on."

Michael gave a short nod. "Sure. I'll just need the tag number and the make, year, and model."

Dean stepped before Sam, who took no offense - the car was, as Dean affectionately called it, 'his baby,' and who indeed was Sam to interfere with a man's love for his car? The thought, however, only made Sam smirk at what he deemed to be an absurdity.

"The tag's KAZ-2Y5, and the make and model is a black '67 Chevy Impala." Dean gave a terse nod after he finished, as if in further confirmation that he knew his baby well, though who exactly he was trying to persuade was unbeknownst to him.

Michael retrieved a clipboard from the garage wall nearby and took a moment to look through a small stack of papers attached to it. He apparently had come to the page he was searching for, as he read through it for a few moments before looking up at Dean, the suspicion in his eyes growing more prominent.

"This car was impounded earlier this morning," Michael said at length.

Sam's eyes widened while Dean's narrowed.

"What do you mean, 'it was impounded?'" Dean demanded.

"I mean that Sheriff Graham and Morgan Jones came down here earlier this morning and told me to impound it. Apparently you two have a lot of explaining to do down at the station."

"What the hell?"

Michael shrugged. "I'm just doing my job, sir. I suggest you take it up with the sheriff and Mrs. Jones, because I unfortunately can't be of much assistance to you."

"You bet your ass I'm going to take it up with the sheriff," Dean hissed. "Nobody touches my baby, do you understand me? Nobody!"

Sam glanced apologetically at Michael as Dean turned sharply on his heel and began to storm away. Michael returned the gesture with a shake of his head, and disappeared into the dimness and bustle of the garage. Once he had gone, Sam turned round and, within three strides, was in pace with Dean.

"There's no need to snap at the man, Dean," Sam said. "He was just doing his job."

"Impounded, Sam? Baby, impounded?" Dean's voice was sharp and edged with annoyance. "What kind of freak town is this?"

Sam could offer no explanation or answer as to the last statement, and fell into silence, allowing Dean to vent as he willed while they walked - Dean much more purposefully than his brother - down the street towards the station.

* * *

Graham sat at his desk in the station, his eyes on the computer monitor in front of him. Morgan stood behind him with her left hand resting on the back of his chair. He was extremely aware of her proximity, the warmth of her body despite the fact that they were not touching; he could smell her perfume, a light, distinct scent that was reminiscent of the sea, with a slight woodiness and greenness that he could only attribute to aquatic flora. He longed to turn around and touch her, but knew that she would only push him away. She was loyal to a fault to those she deemed worthy of that loyalty, particularly her husband and son, and she allowed no other man to touch her.

"Can you search the file?" Morgan asked, startling him from his reverie.

"It's sealed," Graham replied, clearing his throat as he lightly tapped a few keys on the keyboard. "I'll need a court order to open it."

"I wonder what Miss Swan's hiding?" Morgan had leaned over, which was not lost on Graham. He stiffened, focusing on the computer screen, which displayed the results of a background check on Emma Swan.

"I-I don't know," he stammered. "Apparently the records were sealed because she was a juvenile at the time."

Morgan cursed under her breath. "We don't have enough to get a court order. We'll simply have to wait."

Graham made to reply, but was interrupted by the sudden, loud bang of doors being thrown open. Morgan straightened to her full height while Graham turned his head; she was not surprised to see that the Winchesters - Dean, looking quite irate, with Sam at his heels - had stormed into the station.

"Ah, Sam and Dean Winchester," Morgan greeted with a sweet smile. "We've been expecting you."

"Cut the crap," Dean snapped. "I know you impounded my car and I want to know why."

"I had your car impounded because, as the D.A., I felt it my duty to make certain you didn't get away," Morgan replied as-a-matter-of-factly. "When you boys came to town last night, I had the sheriff here run a background check. My suspicions were correct. Let's take a look at your rap sheet, shall we?" At this she retrieved a manilla folder from the corner of the desk, raising her hip to sit on the same corner. She opened the file, glanced down at it, then at the boys, and then down at the file again. "Let's see here. Credit card fraud, insurance fraud, grave desecration, trespassing, breaking and entering, robbery, and several counts of _murder."_

Dean's hardened, angry expression softened minutely, but all color had drained from his face. Sam, too, had gone pale, as the two men stared at her.

"Did you honestly think that we wouldn't find out about this?" she asked, her voice calm but cold and hard as ice. "You are under arrest for the charges described herein. I trust you know your rights - you should have them memorized by now. Sheriff?"

"Yes, Mrs. Jones." Graham rose from his chair and reached down to his belt, grabbing the handcuffs that had been stowed there. "Dean Winchester, you are under arrest for the charges of fraud, grave desecration, trespassing, robbery, breaking and entering, and murder. You have the right to remain silent; anything you say can and will be held against you in the court of law. You have the right to an attorney - if you cannot afford one, the state will provide you with one." As he spoke, Graham placed his hand on Dean's broad shoulder, prompting him to turn. Dean went with no struggle, and Graham gathered his hands behind his back. Dean momentarily felt the cold, hard steel of the cuffs against his wrists, and the familiar click as they were shut.

"As long as they don't provide me with her," Dean spat in Morgan's direction, "I'm fine."

"Oh yes, because if I were you, I'd certainly want the _prosecutor _as my defense," Morgan shot back as she closed the folder, not even looking at him.

"In the cell," Graham ordered as he guided Dean, his hand still on his shoulder and the other on his cuffed wrists, towards said holding cell. Dean, with only a grunt in protest, entered it. Graham pulled the door shut and locked it.

"What about these?" Dean asked, flicking his head backward to motion to the handcuffs.

"You'll get them off momentarily," Graham replied as he returned to the desk. He grabbed a sheet of paper from a desk drawer and began writing something, though neither Dean nor Sam could see it from their respective angles.

Sam exchanged glances with Dean, and approached Morgan as she was retrieving her jacket from the rack near the door. "Morgan-"

"Mrs. Jones," she corrected tersely as she slid her arms into the sleeves.

"Mrs. Jones," he repeated. "Look, I can explain everything. He's innocent of the murders-"

"I read the police reports, Sam," Morgan replied as she pulled her long, dark hair out from under the jacket. "I saw the surveillance tapes. Your brother was seen running from the scene of the murders. It's impossible for him to have been in two places at once - the camera doesn't lie."

"Well, no, but it doesn't tell the context, either," Sam returned, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jackets. "If I explain everything, will you let him go?"

She looked at him incredulously. "What's there to explain?"

"A lot more than you think."

"Sam," Dean barked from the holding cell, "don't tell-"

"I have to, Dean. You're not going to be thrown in jail for crimes you didn't commit."

Dean made to protest, opening his mouth as if to retort, then shut it again. Under his breath he muttered something to the effect of, "you're too damn noble for your own good," but Sam ignored him.

"Please, Mrs. Jones, just hear me out. I'll explain everything and you can make your decision from there," Sam said.

Morgan pondered this for a moment. Evidence never lied - people, particularly those who were close to the suspect, did, and yet he was so earnest and entreating that she found it difficult to refuse him. She highly doubted she would change her position on the matter, though did it hurt to at least hear what the man had to say?

"Fine," she said at length. "Meet me in my office in fifteen minutes. It's located in the town hall, just down the corridor from the mayor's office. You can't miss it." She buttoned her jacket, and with that, turned to leave, the heels of her stilettos clicking on the hard concrete floor.

* * *

_For two months, Morgan and the survivors of her crew had lived and worked aboard the Jolly Roger. Killian had, to Morgan's surprise, kept his end of their bargain; he had specifically forbidden his men from touching her, and they had obeyed. They still eyed her like lustful animals when she was on deck, though she ignored them; months at sea left these bastards hot and bothered for anything remotely in the shape of a female._

_A majority of the encounters between the two captains started or ended with arguments; neither could hardly stand the other, but the arrangement proved successful in the way of raids and plunder. Morgan had proved herself to be quite an asset when she led her own men in a raid against a galley laden with gold and silver, bound for a distant kingdom across the sea. She ruled her men with an iron fist, even going so far as to behead one of them when she caught him stealing from the treasury of a town that had provided tribute to her fellow pirates. She had had the man's body unceremoniously dumped into the sea, his severed head tossed in right alongside him. It was this display that had frightened Killian's crew into obeying his commands. Killian Jones himself was a formidable captain - who needed to tangle with another one who had no compunction about beheading one of her own men before an entire crew?_

_One evening, after weighing anchor and sailing from a port after selling off stolen cargo (the raid from which the cargo had been gained had proved to be particularly lucrative), Morgan leaned forward on the railing of the Jolly Roger near the bow, tying a knot in a line that had begun to fray and weaken. She paused, however, upon feeling a hand grope her bottom through her pants. She whirled round immediately, her balled fist coming into contact with the jaw of one of Killian's men._

_"Don't touch me!" she cried._

_The man rubbed his throbbing jaw, his eyes widened at her in shock. "'ow dare ye 'it me!"_

_"Don't fucking touch me, you piece of shit," she hissed. "Disobeying your captain gets you thrown in the brig - disobeying me gets you killed."_

_"Ye've got some gall, you little slut," the man spat. "Ye just need to get laid then ye'd settle down."_

_At this, Morgan became outraged. The heavy, oily sensation in her core was welling up again, and she could feel her hands growing warmer and beginning to tingle. Before she could register what she was doing, she drew her sword and brandished it. The man, too, drew his sword, and she lunged with a sharp cry. Metal clanged and scraped against metal as she parried his blows, going so far as to drive her sword towards his heart. However, he turned at just the right moment, resulting in a gash across his upper arm. He groaned with the pain, but this seemed to only incense him even further. He raised his sword, but this cost him precious seconds; she took advantage of his openness to lift her leg and kick him rather hard in the stomach. He reeled back in surprise and pain, his back coming into contact with the cold wood of the mast. She stormed towards him, hardly aware that several of the crew had encircled them, egging on the skirmish. The man, still breathless and in pain from the blow to his middle, raised his eyes. They were glassed with pain, but upon meeting her own gaze, they widened in fright. He had expected to meet icy, pale green, but was instead surprised - and frightened - to meet fiery amber, glowing with nothing short of fury. _

_"W-what the hell _are _you?" the man choked in terror._

_She did not answer him; she felt detached from herself, as if she were watching from a distance. The shouts of the men surrounding them, the curses spewing forth from her opponent's mouth, all sounded like distant waves - a vague din of sound. As if of its own accord, her sword raised, and it occurred to her that she had the handle gripped tightly in her hand still. Her feet moved on their own, and she knew she was quickly advancing towards the man._

_Suddenly, however, she was brought back to herself when a pair of arms - strong and warm - wrapped around her waist, pulling her back. Her eyes faded to their usual icy green, and she quickly shook her head, returning to her own body, to her own mind._

_"What the bloody hell is going on?" Killian demanded, his hold on her tightening._

_She began to struggle upon registering who it was that held her. "Let me go!"_

_"Are you out of your mind, woman?" he snapped. He looked at the men. "Take Ishmael down to the brig - I'll deal with him later. Now!"_

_They scurried to do his bidding, the deck now a bustle of activity as they returned to their stations. Morgan, still struggling unsuccessfully to free herself from Killian, found herself being dragged towards the captain's quarters, prompting her to struggle even more._

_"Let me go!" she barked. "Let me go right now!"_

_"No!" _

_Killian's anger and annoyance were clearly written on his handsome features, his sea-blue eyes flashing and his jaw tensing. He drew her into the quarters and slammed the door shut. After locking the door, more for the safety of his men than for Morgan's, he freed her. She whirled round, still furious._

_"What in the bloody hell do you think you're doing?" he demanded. "You may rule your crew how you like, but you do not touch my men!"_

_"He _groped _me!" she shot back. "I was only defending myself!"_

_"By going to kill him?"_

_"Allow me to remind you how it works on this ship, _Captain,_" she declaimed, her biting tone cold and dripping with irritation. "This is a pirate ship, not a brothel. I am a captain, same as you, not some cheap whore you pick up off the street corner or in the pub. Run your ship like the pirate ship it is, not like a zoo with the animals free from their cages!"_

_His eyes flashed angrily. "How do you dare! How do you dare tell me, Killian Jones, how to run a ship? I've been doing this longer than you've been alive, girl."_

_"Then act like it!" she barked at him._

_His hand was itching to be raised to her, and he surrendered to the impulse; he raised his hand to strike her, but paused when, instead of facing him as he expected her to, she turned her head, tensing as if she were bracing herself for an expected blow, her eyes squeezed tightly shut. Something inside him - he never knew what it was - clicked, and his gaze softened ever so slightly as his hand slowly lowered. He could not bring himself to strike her, and it frustrated him that he did not know why._

_"Stay here," he commanded at length, his voice low. "You've got the men in quite an uproar and I need to go talk to Ishmael. You are to stay in my quarters until further notice."_

_She opened her mouth to protest, but he glared and scolded, "Don't argue with me. Just do as I say."_

_Before she could offer any reply to the contrary, however, he had unlocked the door and disappeared out onto the deck. She heard the mechanism in the lock click, and with a frustrated growl low in her throat, she sat angrily down upon a sofa near a dimly-lit corner._

_"Devil take you, Killian Jones," she mumbled under her breath as her hands clenched into fists again._


	8. Unforeseen

A/N: So sorry for the delay. I hit writer's block during this chapter. I've taken creative liberty with Mr. Gold's name; it's never stated explicitly in the canon what his first name is, but the name John seems to suit him, so I've chosen that. I own only characters that do not appear in either canon; italics indicate flashbacks.

* * *

Chapter 8 - Unforeseen

"A _shapeshifter_?" Morgan asked incredulously, cocking one finely-arched brow at Sam, who sat across the desk from her.

They were seated in her office, which, as she had indicated, was only a few steps down the hall from Mayor Mills's own office. Morgan's was decorated in a style similar to that of her sister's: black and white damask papered the walls, with rich, intricately-carved ebony furniture. Behind the large desk was a window that stretched the length of the wall. Beyond the glass, the sky was a dark, ominous gray that indicated an impending storm. It did nothing to improve the atmosphere of the office, which, although elegant, was as cold as the sky outside.

Sam shifted in his seat, though not uncomfortably. With a nod he replied with utmost sincerity, "Look, I get it. You're not the type of woman to believe in things like that, but Morgan-"

"Mrs. Jones."

"Mrs. Jones," he continued, acknowledging her correction, "my brother and I have hunted these…these things, creatures like this shapeshifter, all our lives. They do exist. Do you ever wonder why we're afraid of the dark?"

She was listening intently, her eyes focused on him with a veil of suspicion and incredulity. He expected nothing less from her, yet he was willing to take anything he could get at this point. She was, at the very least, willing to listen to what he had to say.

"We're not afraid of the dark itself," Sam went on, "but what lurks in it. We're all human, and humanity's greatest fear is of the invisible, of the unknown, of the things we can't see but know they're there. These are the things that Dean and I hunt. And this shapeshifter is one of those creatures. We don't make it a point to go around bragging that we're hunters, but you demanded an explanation, and this is it."

She had been leaning against the backrest of her black leather chair, yet straightened as he finished. "Mr. Winchester, do you expect me to believe that a shapeshifter impersonated your brother and committed all those murders?"

"I know it sounds ridiculous, but you'll just have to trust me."

"My trust is not so easily earned. And I suppose you're going to tell me that Bigfoot committed insurance and credit card fraud and framed Dean for it."

"Ah…no," Sam answered, unable to repress a soft chuckle. "No, Bigfoot's got other things to worry about."

She leaned forward in her chair so that her elbows were resting on the white blotter of her desk. "You're correct in saying that this is all absurd, and the evidence does not lie. However, I am willing to look over the tapes again. In the meantime, Dean will remain in custody."

Sam nodded. He had no doubt that Morgan would keep Dean in custody, at least for the time being, and although he knew Dean would be rather displeased at the prospect of staying behind bars, it was better than having the case being pushed straight through the system. He had no other option than to cooperate with Morgan at this stage.

"You may go for now." Her accented voice was like that of a sharp, clear bell that startled him from his thoughts.

"Huh? Oh. Oh yeah, thanks." He rose steadily, crossing the room to the door. He paused a moment, wondering whether he should have told her more, but he at length decided against it. It was unwise to reveal all of his hand now. The strange feeling he had gotten upon their entering town had only grown stronger during their stay, and he knew that there were few people he could trust, if indeed anyone in this town could be trusted at all. Storybrooke, at least on the surface, was like any other small town they had investigated; everyone had something to hide, everyone had his or her own agenda.

At length, he opened the door and exited the office. Morgan watched as he left, her mind spinning. She had been certain that only humans had been swept to this world by the Curse. If what Sam had said had been correct, these incidences and cases had begun in concordance with the Curse bringing them to Storybrooke.

She glanced down at the legal pad on which she had taken notes. She had made certain to ask him questions that were pertinent, though did it in such a manner as to seem disinterested. More research would be required, but if her suspicions were correct….

Perhaps it was in her best interest to speak to the source.

* * *

John Gold was rather unassuming in appearance; he was a slight man, thin with dark hair and dark eyes, though his demeanor was one of suave elegance and even, to a degree, arrogance. It was arguable that he had a right to be; older though he was, with barely visible grey threads sprinkled throughout his hair, he was still undeniably attractive, with a thin nose and deep eyes.

He owned more than the pawn shop; he owned the town, and was known to be the wealthiest resident. He was disliked by the general town denizens, and trusted even less. If this concerned him, he gave no indication. He went about his business, which consisted of dealmaking. His terms, once outlined, were set in stone and he was not one to change them. However, he did keep his word, though was infamous for finding loopholes in the terms set forth in the contracts he made. He simply ascribed it to being "good business."

It was this man that Morgan had resolved to see. Once she had left her office, she made her way down the street. It was beginning to drizzle, though the cold did not seem to faze her. She kept her hands in her pocket, her dark hair gently rustling behind her as she walked. Presently she arrived at the shopfront, and went inside, prompting a small bell above the door to tinkle. Inside the shop was dimly lit, and it took her eyes a moment to adjust to the dimness. It was cluttered, though in its own organized way, with various artifacts of another realm, another life, artifacts that belonged to the residents but remained forgotten.

"What can I do for-" He emerged from the back room, limping while grasping his black lacquered cane. His face, which he had arranged into a pleasant countenance, darkened slightly upon seeing his visitor. "Ah. Mrs. Jones. I trust you're not here for items, are you?"

"Indeed I'm not," she replied, venturing further into the shop. "I'm here for information."

"And what information can I possibly provide you with? You do realize that it comes with a price?"

At this, Morgan rolled her eyes impatiently. "I'm not one of your customers, John. You will tell me what I need to know."

"For a price."

"There is no price, there is no deal."

"Then there is no information."

She glared at him. Had it been anyone other than John Gold, they would have conceded expressly, but not this man. It was well-known that the relations between John and the Joneses were, to say the least, tense. The reason for such tension remained a mystery except to the three involved, but it was acknowledged that John and Killian loathed each other, but it was only for Morgan and Adrian's sakes that they remained coldly civil. In this case, "coldly civil" was understood to mean that neither man would be caught dead in the company of the other if he could help it. Morgan's affiliation with John was also a tense one, though she did keep a channel of communication open; after all, who was she to dispose of someone who proved to be useful to her?

"What's your price then, John?" The first name basis was not an outward display of cordiality, but of spite. The gesture between the two was mutual.

"My price, Morgan, is this: I do this favor for you now, and you owe me a favor later."

"I owe you nothing."

With a flourish of his hand and a flick of his wrist, he held up his index finger as if in protest. "Ah, but you do." He leaned forward, his face scrunching in that familiar way that indicated anger or annoyance. Morgan supposed it to be the latter. "You owe me more than you think, dearie. I'm offering you a discount of sorts."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"It means," he answered smoothly, coming around the side of the counter, "that if it had not been for me, you and your _precious husband" - _the words were bitter with acrimony as he spat them - "would have been separated and subject to the Curse like everyone else. That protection spell that Regina cast upon the four of you when it swept through the Old Realm?"

It took Morgan just a moment to register the implications. "You taught her that."

"Of course." His tone was matter-of-fact. He reached with one hand, the other in employment on keeping his balance with the cane, and retrieved a small scroll, its edges blackened as if from burning, from the top shelf in front of him. He placed on the counter and, leaning against it for support, unrolled the scroll. "She begged me to do it. She, for whatever reason, wanted Killian, Adrian, and yourself spared from it."

She eyed the scroll on the glass countertop. "What's that?"

"This, dearie," he answered, looking it over, "is all that's left of the Curse's beginnings."

"The Dark Curse that you created." The statement was not accusatory in any manner, but frank.

He did not look at her. "And what makes you say so?"

"As powerful as Regina is, she could have never engineered something so powerful. The only one I know with the power to create such a curse is the Dark One."

At this, he did look up at her, and the smirk he gave her was all at once mischievous, charming, and repulsive. "Well done, dearie. You're correct in that assumption. Which brings us back to your original purpose for being here."

It was an invitation to explain, one that she accepted. "Sam Winchester informed me that he and his brother are Hunters."

At this, John's eyes widened. "Hunters? Here, in this realm?"

"Did you not know?"

"I'm ashamed to say that no, I was not aware that Hunters existed here. Of course this realm does have its share of ghosts and, what's the term, 'things that go bump in the night?' But shapeshifters, dearie? Vampires, werewolves, striga, rugaru? Even a wendigo and djinn! These are all creatures that are from our realm, Morgan, not this one. And you say they started appearing in this world around twenty-eight years ago?"

She nodded. "If the timeline he presented me with is accurate, yes. He also mentioned electrical storms."

At this, John's face paled, and she could not help but feel a sudden jolt of concern burst through her entrails. He looked back over the scroll, shook his head, and rolled it up before returning it to its place on the shelf.

"John?" she asked.

He turned slowly to face her. "Apparently, the Curse brought more than just we humans here, dearie."

Confused by this, she inquired, "What do you mean?"

"What I mean is that when the Curse was cast, it caused a rent in the veil that separates our realm from this one; after the Curse swept through, the rent closed again. It was my intention that only those you see here in Storybrooke would be brought through, but this was unforeseen. I didn't anticipate creatures of that nature coming through the tear as well."

"Veil?"

With a sharp nod of his head, he took two coins - a nickel and a quarter - from his pocket. "Let me ask you this. If I put this quarter here, can the nickel be in the exact same place?"

Not understanding what he was trying to convey, she replied almost questioningly, "No, of course not. They can be side by side but not in the same place at the same time."

"And so it is with all the realms. You know this better than most; you've sailed with your husband to many realms on the Jolly Roger, have you not? The worlds, the realms, lie close together, closer than you realize, but the veil is strong enough to keep them separated except in special cases. Not many people possess the ability or the means to go freely between the realms. People remain ignorant about the fact that there are many other realms beyond their own. For the most part, this suits them just fine." He was facing her completely now, leaning on his cane. "But the fact is, dearie, that the Winchesters may be of more assistance to us than we realize. These creatures they're hunting don't belong in this world. The creatures need to be destroyed before this world falls into chaos."

"Why do you care about what happens to this world?" she demanded incredulously.

His eyes flashed in anger but his countenance remained calm. "My boy is here somewhere. Baelfire. He's here, and if this world is destroyed I'll never find him. If he were not here, I probably would not give as much of a damn as I do. But think about it, dearie; if you and your son had gotten separated, wouldn't you be doing everything in your power to find him?"

Her eyes met his, and her gaze said rather plainly that she understood. "Of course I would. I'd move heaven, earth, and hell to find him."

"So you understand my predicament. We need the Winchesters, Morgan. These creatures that have somehow made it through to this world need to be destroyed, and who better to do it than two Hunters?"

"You're suggesting, then, that we use these two boys to save this realm-"

"So the Curse can be broken. The creatures have magic, and it's that magic that's helping keep the Curse intact. Yes, we do have the Savior, but she doesn't believe in what the denizens of this world call the paranormal. But the Winchesters know better. The more creatures that are destroyed, the easier it is for the Curse to break."

"But if this is true, if these creatures came through the portal, why don't we see larger ones like trolls and ogres?"

"Think about it, dearie," John answered. "It takes a lot less magic for a human-sized creature than a larger one to come through. The veil may have been torn but it still acted as a type of filter; the Curse did not contain unlimited magic, and as you can imagine, it used up a majority of it transporting everyone to this world."

"Well, then," she said at length, taking a few moments to process this, "I suppose we'll have to keep the Winchesters here."

He smirked again, though this time it was not as vile. "I leave that to you, dearie."

* * *

_Killian did not know how long he had spoken to Ishmael, but was at length, after about ten lashings, able to get out of the man that he had indeed touched Morgan. Killian had ordered ten more lashings, which the bo'sun was all too happy to carry out. Killian was angered by Ishmael's deed, though why was unbeknownst to him. Morgan frustrated him, annoyed him, angered him; she knew what buttons to press and in what order to send him into a fury. Rarely had a day passed in all her months on the ship when they did not butt heads or argue._

_This anger, brought about by Ishmael's blatant disregard for the contract set forth by the two captains, was of a different breed. For all his annoyance and frustration at the woman, Killian felt almost….what word could he possibly use? Jealous?_

_At this he shook his head. What could he possibly have to be jealous of? He had no feelings for Morgan beyond annoyance and frustration at her very existence, the sole purpose of which seemed to be to torment him._

_He entered the captain's quarters to find her lying on a sofa in a dim corner, barely out of the reach of the lamplight. As he neared, he found that she had fallen asleep. She was lying on her back, with one hand draped across her stomach while the other rested near her temple. Her face was relaxed, her lips very slightly parted, and her dark lashes fluttered at random intervals as she slumbered. Her black hair formed a sort of dark halo round her head, as it spread out on the pillow. He made to wake her, but something caught his eye._

_His eyes flicked to her hand near her temple, and saw that her sleeve had fallen down, revealing her wrist. Against the porcelain white of her flesh, he found two raised, pale pink scars running lengthwise. They were old, but not so old as to have lost their color._

_As he studied them, even from the current distance, he felt something inside him change, as if a tiny candle had flickered to life. It was barely present, but present all the same; it was not all-consuming, but it caused his insides to wrench, and the backs of his eyes to prick bitterly._

_It was the bitterness of understanding, of empathy. To know that another had shouldered such difficult burdens, to have been so lost and so hurt that she could find no other resolution or way out, prompted a flood of his own bitterness, his own pain. In those scars on her wrist he saw his own pain reflected, his own ultimate adventure, as he referred to it. The tears were now silently making their way down his cheeks, having overflowed the barricade of his lashes. _

_For the first time in years, Killian Jones wept._


	9. Scars

A/N: Italics indicate flashbacks. I own only Morgan, King, Adrian, and anyone else who did not appear in either canon. This chapter is not M-rated; however, the next chapter will be.

* * *

Chapter 9 - Scars

_It had been a shock for which Killian had not been prepared. He knew the scars that crossed her fair flesh were self-inflicted, and he could not help but wonder, even among the flood of his own pain, a resurgence of his own misery that had never fully dissipated, what had driven her to such lengths. He himself could not take the pain of loneliness; his life, he had realized, had been empty. He had gone from one raid, one conquest, to the next, having neither a thought or care of what tomorrow held in store. Yet what had he to live for? There had been a void inside him that had always been present, a void that no one had ever been able to fill. Even with Milah, though she was long gone, had not been able to fill that void completely. It was only now, when he was faced with a woman who had physical scars, physical manifestations of excruciating pain that was similar to his, that he could have readily admitted it._

_He counted, drying the tears with the back of his hand, how many times he had stood at the bow of the ship, staring into the dark, swirling waves below the hull. He had wondered time and time again whether the abyss would be as welcoming as a lover's arms, to enfold him in its cold, dark embrace so that he would be overcome with numbness, unable to feel, to breathe, to think. He wondered how much of a release it would be to succumb to that cold darkness. There was, however, always something that had held him back, like an invisible rope wrapped around his heart that would draw him away from the bow, whispering, "Not yet. One more day. Not yet."_

_For the briefest moment, a thought so absurd, so preposterous, entered his mind that it surprised even himself._

_Was Morgan, who still slept on the sofa before him, that invisible rope, that chain that had kept him tied to life, who had refused to let him embark on that final journey? If so, did she even realize it?_

_He shook his head to force the thought out of his mind. It was, to be frank, stupid; he would not have been surprised if she wished him dead. _

_In these silent moments as he observed her, he found himself simply drinking her in. In this moment she was not a pirate captain, but a sleeping woman - and, he had to admit, a beautiful one. His hand twitched as if wanting to reach out to touch her, but he stayed it. _

_'_What in the bloody hell is wrong with you?' _he scolded himself. _'You hate the woman; you can't stand her. She's infuriating, annoying, and she tries your patience at every turn.'

_'And yet,' another part of him answered, 'she has not left the forefront of your mind since she came to your quarters all those months ago. Try as you might, you cannot bring yourself to push her away.'_

_He wondered whether it would be in his best interest to push her away, to convince her to jump ship at the next port so he would never have to see her again. She drove him to distraction when he could not afford to be swayed; revenge took precedence over everything else. He did not know where Rumplestitlskin was, but he would find him and kill him. Not even Morgan could sway him from that._

_Yet the more he observed her, the longer he was in her presence when she was so vulnerable, he could not bring himself to push her away. _

_It was while this hurricane of thought whirled in his head that her eyes fluttered open. It took her a moment to register that she was not alone, and as his face came into focus through the haze of sleep, her eyes widened as she bolted upright on the sofa. Her sudden movement startled him._

_"What the hell are you doing?" she demanded angrily. "Were you watching me sleep?"_

_"Two things, love," he answered calmly, though not without the usual frustration edging his tone. "One, this is my quarters so I have every right to be in here. Two, yes, I was."_

_"Don't you have better things to do than to sit there and watch me sleep?"_

_"Perhaps." He debated silently whether to confess to her that he had seen her scars; he knew she would be angry, but how long could he pretend that he had not seen them, that she did not bear a physical manifestation of excruciating emotional pain they both shared?_

_She must have understood what he had seen, as she anxiously yanked the sleeve down her wrist to conceal the scars. She avoided his eyes, ashamed that he had seen what she deemed to be a sign of weakness and cowardice._

_"You didn't get those from battle, did you?" His voice was soft, barely audible even in the quiet cabin. _

_"It's none of your concern where I got them," she returned, her voice just as soft but icy. "You were never meant to see these."_

_He was silent for a moment. He knew that, for these few moments, both of them were vulnerable. In her own way, Morgan was slowly opening herself to him. She had not tried to fight him, she did not scream or snap at him, but she remained quiet, civil. _

_"You don't need to be ashamed of them," he continued, knowing it was at his own peril to keep pressing the issue. "You aren't alone in that regard, you know."_

_She looked up at him then, her eyes filled with surprise that she was desperately trying to conceal. "What are you talking about? You know nothing about these, how I received them, or the circumstances. How do you know?"_

_"No, I don't know what drove you to it," he replied. He was sorely tempted to move to sit beside her on the sofa, as she was now sitting rather than reclining, but he refrained and checked his temptation. He dared not make any sudden moves, particularly into her personal space. "I don't know what drove you to harm yourself, but believe me when I say that there are people out there who share your pain, who know what it's like to see no other alternative, no other way out, to feel as if life is more trouble than it's worth."_

_She said nothing, but averted her eyes again. She was not entirely uncomfortable, but she was uncertain. She did not like uncertainty, but at least for now, she did not feel as if she were being caged or suffocated. He had made no move to indicate any sort of violence or threats, and his voice was soft and even. She did not know what to call this moment other than a truce, whatever said truce was worth in the long run._

_"And how would you know this?" She was still not looking at him. She could not. She did not know whether she felt ashamed that he had seen the scars or that she had made herself so vulnerable before him, and she could not bring herself to look at him._

_He was silent for a long moment before answering, and she could hear him inhale sharply, almost as if in pain. At length he murmured, "Because I'm one of those people."_

_Her head snapped up. This was something she was not expecting. Arrogant, self-assured Killian Jones, brought to his knees? It was utterly absurd._

_"My life has always been…empty," he explained. "I would always go from one conquest - whether it be raid or bed - to the next, but there was always a void that could never be filled. I would frequently think, 'what do I have to live for? I have nothing.' I met a woman named Milah in a tavern once, and she was so interested in my stories. She begged me to take her away from a life she hated, and I could not refuse her. She was aboard my ship for ten years. Her husband, her former husband by that time I would assume, found out. He took my hand and killed her in front of me."_

_"Did you love her?" The question was simple enough, yet it caused Morgan's heart to wrench in an inexplicable way._

_"Up until recently, I firmly believed that I did." He leaned back in the chair, heaving a soft sigh. "But now I'm questioning myself, questioning my mission - to get revenge on the man who had killed her. Thus I'm questioning everything that has kept me going for this long. It angers me, it annoys me, it frustrates me to the highest degree, this constant second-guessing. My course had been set in stone, or so I thought." A lump had developed in his throat, and he swallowed it, though not without difficulty. "After I get my revenge, I'm planning to go on the ultimate voyage. There's nothing left for me here or anywhere. When all is said and done, all I want is peace."_

_She pursed her lips, biting her lower lip in a vain attempt to stem the tide of tears that were beginning to well at her lashes. _

_"And what about now?" she asked, her voice steady despite the tears blurring her vision._

_"Now? I keep looking for him. I stay the course. I can't afford to turn back." He turned his eyes to her, and found that her eyes were downcast. "What about you?"_

_"There's nothing to tell."_

_He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the tops of his legs. "Come on, lass, I bared my soul for you. The least you could do is to return the favor."_

_At this she returned his gaze. Despite her hardened expression, he could see tear tracks running down her cheeks. He did not know why, but this surprised him._

_"I didn't ask you to do it," she said calmly. "I didn't ask you to tell me anything - you chose to do so of your own accord. Why do you care about a woman you hate?"_

_Stung at this - though he knew it was justified - he answered, "Because I don't hate you."_

_Her gaze softened and she relaxed slightly, having been caught off guard. "What?"_

_"I don't hate you, Morgan. Make no mistake - you try my patience, you frustrate the hell out of me, and frankly you scare my men shitless. But no, I don't hate you. I don't think I ever have."_

_"But you said-"_

_"I'm a pirate, darling; I've said a lot of things I don't mean."_

_As she made to retort, a knock sounded at the door. _

_"What?" Killian snapped, turning his head slightly to the left towards the door._

_"Sir, a galley's been spotted off the starboard bow. Do we take her on?" The quartermaster's voice was slightly muffled by the wood, but Killian and Morgan could hear him quite plainly._

_Killian spared a brief glance at Morgan before answering, "All hands on deck."_

_"Aye, sir." Footfalls sounded on the deck, then faded into the buzz and din of activity that had risen just beyond the door. Killian, having given his answer, rose to his feet. He stood at his full height, his shoulders square._

_"I'm going to need you out on deck," he said, his voice taking on the familiar tone of unwavering authority. He was not Killian any longer; he was Captain Hook now. "You're one of the most capable fighters in a raid."_

_Without another word he turned and exited the cabin, leaving Morgan to stare after him._

* * *

At precisely 3:15, Killian and Adrian arrived at their home. It was in the customary style of a New England beach home and was settled on a sandy knoll, which was sprinkled with reeds and tall grass. The home's location afforded them a lovely view of the sea which, on sunny days, was reminiscent of a blue sapphire. Today, however, with the impending rain, it looked gray and shadowed.

They were greeted at the door by King, an Australian Shepherd that Killian had gotten for Morgan upon their discovery of her pregnancy. King had been faithful to the Jones family, and was fiercely protective of his owners, his mistress in particular.

"Hi, King!" Adrian greeted, immediately going to the dog and hugging him. Killian retrieved his keys from his pocket and took a moment to find the door key.

"Let him in, Ace," Killian told him as he unlocked the door. "It's going to rain."

Adrian nodded and allowed King to hurry inside, the nails of his paws clicking on the hardwood. The dog ran into the living room and immediately jumped onto the sofa, prompting Killian to shake his head.

"You know Morgan's not going to like it if you shed all over the furniture," he said, prompting King to give him a look that plainly said he was too comfortable to care.

The stairs creaked under footsteps, and Killian turned to find Morgan descending them, already having changed out of her work clothes and into a pair of jeans and a long-sleeved t-shirt that, he had to admit, accentuated her curves rather nicely.

"You're home early, love," he observed as she stepped onto the landing.

"I decided to take the rest of the day off. I had other work to do here."

He tilted his head, conveying his confusion. "I don't understand."

She glanced at Adrian, who had busied himself preparing a peanut butter-and-jelly sandwich in the kitchen, and placed her hand on the back of her husband's arm. "Come with me and I'll explain."

She led him to the den, motioning with her free hand for King to move; he obeyed and instead found solace in a recliner near the window. Morgan and Killian sat down on the sofa, Killian still looking rather confused.

"Those boys that came here the other night," Morgan began. "The Winchesters. You remember them, don't you?"

"Sam and Dean? Of course I do."

"They're Hunters."

He blinked. "They're…Hunters? Hunters, here in this world?"

"Creatures from our world somehow managed to be swept here by the Curse. Because they're not human, they're not subject to the same limitations that we are. The Winchesters, if what Sam told me is true, travel all over the country, destroying these creatures, hunting them down."

"Creatures? Like what?"

"Striga, shape shifters, wendigos. They're all here. They started appearing twenty-eight years ago, around the same time that we came to Storybrooke. The Winchesters have been hunting them all these years. If we want the curse to break, which we do so we can get back to our world, then we need the Winchesters to keep killing these things. The creatures have magic that make it more difficult for the Curse to be broken."

Killian had leaned back into the sofa, draping his arm across the backrest behind her. "Isn't that the Savior's job? This Emma Swan girl?"

"She doesn't believe, so she's going to be hard-pressed to succeed in the way of breaking the Curse. We need the Winchesters, so it is for that reason I am going to keep them here."

"And how do you propose on doing that?"

The right corner of her lip curled into a smirk. "Any means necessary."

His smirk mirrored her own as he leaned forward. He paused in his movement when his lips were a hair's breadth from hers and whispered, "That's my Morgan."

She closed the final distance, resting her hand on the back of his head so as to press his mouth against hers. She felt his arms wrap around her, warm and strong, and possessively he brought her close against his chest, deepening the kiss.

When they broke the kiss so as to come up for air, Morgan whispered breathlessly, "I've yet to get a bath today."

He chuckled low in his throat. "That can surely be arranged, my love."

They stood together, and he allowed her to take his hand and lead him to the stairs. She paused at the first step and called, "Adrian, your father and I will be upstairs if you need anything."

"Okay, Mom," he called back from the kitchen.

She then turned her attention to her husband, whose deep, sea-blue eyes were already beginning to glimmer with excitement. Still leading him by the hand, she led him up the stairs, and down the hall to their bedroom. She paused at the door to the on-suite bathroom to open it, and with a seductive smile yanked him by the arm inside. He swept her into his arms, kissing her heatedly and passionately, and shut the door with his foot.


	10. The Lacquered Box

A/N: Please note this chapter contains M-rated material. I own Morgan, Vanessa, Jessica, and others that do not appear in either canon.

* * *

Chapter 10

Morgan sighed as Killian's hands - strong, warm, and slightly callused - skated across her creamy flesh, caressing her sides, her flat stomach, and upwards to cup her breasts. He was on top of her, his body softly moving against hers as his lips danced across her throat. She entwined the fingers of her right hand in his hair, while with her left she gently raked her nails across his strong back. She could feel, however barely, remnants of old scars. His body was no stranger to them, as he had them in multiple places; they told stories of battles and hardship that he'd endured over the years.

In the back of her mind, she was aware of a draught emanating from the window, which ghosted over their naked bodies. Yet they were too warm and too absorbed in one another to notice.

His lips found their way up to hers, and he wasted no time in capturing them. The kiss that ensued was deep and passionate, her tongue dancing suggestively with his. He groaned low in his throat as she used her hand in his hair to press his mouth harder against hers. She could feel his kiss in every fiber of her being, intensifying the ache in her core. Her heart ached as well, but it was a pleasant ache, the kind derived from such a deep love that even the sea itself envied.

"I love you, my Morgan," he whispered against her lips, his sea-blue eyes glimmering with sincerity, love, and passion. This side of Killian Jones had, up until Morgan, remained hidden, buried under pain and private torment. She was the only one he had ever deemed worthy of sharing it with, the only one who would never think him weak or cowardly.

"I love you, too, Killian," she answered, the words now a soft whisper.

He smiled at her before lowering his head to her breasts, whereupon he began to lavish them with attention via his lips and tongue. She arched her back, allowing a soft moan to escape her lips. Instinctively her legs wrapped around his waist, and he paused in his ministrations to look up at her, smirking devilishly.

"Impatient little minx, aren't you?" His voice was low and husky, his breath warm on the sensitive flesh of her breasts. He returned to his ministrations, eliciting from her even more soft moans and sighs of his name. He felt her run her hand through his dark hair, while with her other she caressed his forearm.

She lay back against the pillows, enjoying this intimacy, these private moments with him. He, too, enjoyed these private moments they shared, not just for the physical pleasure, but the sense of security and closeness, which had been so rare in his life before her that they were essentially nonexistent. She allowed him to touch her where he would, and he smiled at her as her hands wandered over his flesh.

With her every touch she felt him growing more aroused, and at length she asked, "Doesn't it hurt?"

"Not too much," he answered as he kissed her. "It does tend to throb though."

She wrapped her arms around his neck, nuzzling against his neck. "Shall we remedy that?"

A low chuckle emanated from his throat, causing it to vibrate against her cheek as she nuzzled him. She looked up at him, grinning.

"We shall indeed, my Morgan," he answered her seductively, shifting his hips into position.

He inched forward until he was pressing at her opening, begging entrance. She granted this to him, sliding forward ever so slightly until he was entering her. She moaned softly as he continued to slide into her, groaning her name as her warm wetness sheathed him. He tilted his head back, his eyes closed in pleasure, and she took advantage of the opportunity to run her tongue from the base of his neck to his jawline. His flesh quivered, and she felt his member twitch inside her.

"Oh gods, Morgan," he groaned softly in her ear as he looked down at her, beginning to move in a steady rhythm. She gripped his shoulders, then gently pushed on them. He quirked a brow. "What?"

"Sit up," she told him.

He did so, albeit reluctantly, but found that she had not broken the contact between them. On the contrary, she still held on to him as he moved to sit upright. She wrapped her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist. He sat cross-legged, with his arms around her and she situated comfortably on his lap. He found he was still buried in her. Striking sea-blue met pale, icy green as his gaze met hers. His entire being was focused on her, and hers on him. Their union, their love, was now made manifest in an intimate, physical manner, and the magic was there - they could feel it, a dull humming in their blood. With every thrust it crescendoed before dulling again.

Their rhythm had grown in intensity and depth, and they struggled to keep their moans of pleasure quiet. Adrian, after all, was still in the house. He knew quite well that his parents were having what he referred to as "a moment," but they still did not wish to call attention to such a private moment.

Killian buried his face in his wife's neck, his beard scratching the soft flesh, though not unpleasantly. She tilted her head back, her lips open in a wide 'o' of pleasure. Her breath escaped in soft gasps as she rode him, and she could feel his nails rake across her back. The pain, however minimal, only heightened her pleasure. She felt his warm, wet tongue ghost across her collarbone and the base of her throat, and in response she ensnared her right hand in his dark hair, quickening the rhythm even further.

Morgan knew her husband's body as well as she knew her own, and she could feel his muscles - strong and hardened after centuries of life at sea - become taut. Inside her she could feel him beginning to throb, a sure sign of imminent climax. Her own body mirrored his, and around him she was beginning to tighten considerably.

They clung to one another as they moved faster, the thrusts now hard and deep. Their sighs had increased to moans that they struggled to keep quiet, and they became swept away with one another, surrendering completely to the magic that was their lovemaking. He placed one hand on the back of her head, urgently pressing her mouth down on his. She moaned low in her throat as his tongue danced with hers, and she could feel their bodies beginning to tremble as the pleasure reached the very precipice.

All at once, the flood gates burst open, and they abruptly broke the kiss, crying out one another's name as they reached climax together. She felt him spill himself into her, and she knew that her own juices had rushed to meet his. They shuddered and trembled, and they could feel their most intimate places spasm as a result of the release. They clung to one another in the wake of the tidal wave of pleasure that had overwhelmed them, and at length, spent and satisfied, Killian collapsed back onto the pillows, bringing Morgan with him.

She lay her head on his chest, now warm and slightly damp with a thin film of sweat. He had not released her from his arms, and even now he still held her tightly, protectively, to his side. He brushed a stray lock of hair out of her eyes and smiled at her, a gesture she returned.

"That never gets old," he panted as he began to regain control of his breathing and racing heart.

"I should hope not. I'd be worried if it did," she answered breathlessly, draping her arm across his hardened stomach. "I've noticed something."

"Hm?" He had taken to caressing her naked back lightly with his fingertips, his eyes closed in bliss.

"You've not gone anywhere near Rumplestiltskin."

At this, his eyes snapped open and he looked down at her. "Why bring him up now?"

"You said that you wanted revenge against him, and you've made no move to do so. I'm just puzzled - I know that you're by nature a vengeful man, and he took the woman you loved, did he not?"

He scoffed at the mention of it. "I never loved her. I was in lust with her, yes, and I was desperate. But love? She never knew the meaning of it. Until I met you, I didn't either."

"Then why get revenge against him?"

"My hand," he replied simply. "He took it, remember? We did go to Lake Nostos before the Curse was cast, but I'm not certain how the Curse being broken will affect it - and you know it will break."

"I'm hoping it will."

"Yes, love, exactly. The point is, I'm still going to skin myself a crocodile, one way or another, but there is another motive aside from my hand."

Morgan had been toying with the pendant he wore round his neck when she looked up at him. "What's that?"

"I want revenge for you."

"Me?"

He nodded. "Rumplestiltskin knew Cora, did he not? He knew what she was doing to you, and yet he stood by and did nothing, not wanting to get involved, not wanting to save an innocent child from her suffering. He stood by and let Cora hurt you again and again."

"Killian-"

"Morgan, I can't let that slide. The only reason why I haven't gone after him is because I want no harm to come to you or our son, which will inevitably happen if I do, at least right now. You two are the only ones I have in this world, you two are my reason for living. Without you I have nothing. He still has some power in this world; magic still exists here, just not in the same form as it does in the Old Realm." He had taken to running his fingers through her dark waves, his lips pressed to forehead as he finished speaking.

"And the Winchesters?" She drew her fingertips lightly across his chest, the dark curls tickling her fingers as she did so.

"What of them?"

"Where do they come in?"

"They're to help break the Curse, aren't they? By killing these creatures."

"I don't know if I can keep them in Storybrooke then, as the creatures aren't limited to here."

"Keep them here because they have knowledge of what the denizens of this world call the paranormal. They can at least help Emma in that way. If we let them go, there's no way to know if they'd ever return."

The truth of this she could not refute. "I suppose."

He smirked in that charismatic, slightly crooked way of his that always drove her mad. "You'll know what to do, my Morgan."

She settled on his chest again, hearing a deep rumble there as he began to sing to her an old sea chanty. She closed her eyes, allowing his voice and her fatigue to lull her into slumber.

* * *

"You _told _her?" Dean hissed to his brother, who sat beside the cell in an old chair. "You told her what we do, when we promised Dad we wouldn't?"

Dean's anger and annoyance were palpable, even from Sam's distance, but he stood his ground. "She has a right to know. She asked for the truth, so I gave it to her."

"Did she believe you?"

Sam shrugged. "I honestly don't know. She said she'll look over the evidence again-"

"I'm sure she would," Dean spat bitterly. "So the bitch has us trapped here _and _she knows what we do."

"Dean, think about it. In the off chance she does believe us, who's to say she can't help us find Dad? She's got access to police records and such, right? She's probably got a detective friend or two who may be able to help us-"

"Oh yeah, sure, and then they arrest Dad for credit card and insurance fraud."

"Dean, we have no idea where he is. It's been weeks since we've seen him, and we didn't get this text until a few days ago. I don't think he's on a hunting trip anymore."

Dean, who had been staring at the ground with his brows furrowed, looked up at his brother in surprise. "What?"

"It's just…it's this feeling I get. I don't know why, I can't explain it, but you know I've got…you know I'm different. I always have been. My feelings have never been wrong, and I think we've gotten ourselves involved in something beyond what we've dealt with before. This town is just flat-out weird, it has its own feel to it that other small towns don't."

"What're you getting at?"

"There's something going on here that's a hell of a lot more involved than just a few reapers or ghosts. Those we have experience with. Those we can deal with. But this? I don't think we've ever dealt with this before, not on this scale."

"How big are we talking?"

Sam shook his head and shrugged. "I don't know."

Dean sighed and leaned back against the cold, concrete block wall behind him. Sam just watched him, almost sympathetically.

"Jesus Christ, what have we gotten ourselves into?" Dean muttered as he rubbed his face with his hands.

* * *

"Jessica!" Vanessa Gold cried to the little girl hurrying down the street in front of her. "Jessica, wait!"

The little girl paused midstep, turning to face her mother. "You're slow, Mom!"

Vanessa at length caught up with her, adjusting her bag on her shoulder. "Your father will still be there, you know."

"But you said we could have a race!"

Vanessa couldn't help but smile. "That I did, but you won. So come on, sweetheart." She placed her arm around her daughter's small shoulders, and together they continued down the street. The wind was cold, but not biting, and every few moments a flurry of snowflakes would blow past. Vanessa, using her free hand, tightened her coat around her so as to keep out the cold, while Jessica seemed not at all fazed.

At length they came to stand before the pawn shop, whereupon Jessica immediately pushed the door open. A soft tinkling sounded from above the door, the result of a little bell. Jessica loved the little bell above the door, a sound she always associated with her father.

Presently, John emerged from the back, supporting himself on his black lacquered cane. His face, which had been arranged into lines of concentration, softened into a smile as he came to look upon his visitors.

"Daddy!" Jessica cried as she ran to him.

He could not lower himself to her level, as the pain in his leg was much too strong to allow it, but he did open his arm to her, welcoming her into a warm, one-armed embrace. "You two are late, dearie."

"Mommy and I stopped at Granny's," Jessica replied as she looked up at him with bright, dark eyes.

"Did you? What did you have?" He stroked her dark hair, smiling lovingly down at her.

"A hotdog."

Vanessa, meanwhile, had taken to browsing about the shop. She came to stand at the counter, her eyes focused on a dark lacquered box, engraved in silver with the letters S.C. on the side, that rested on a shelf behind the counter. She had been in the shop countless times, yet this was the first time she had noticed the box.

"Honey," she called to John, "what's in that box?"

"What one?" he asked, looking up from his daughter, who still had her arms around his waist.

Vanessa pointed to the appropriate object. "That one."

He followed her finger, and a look of recognition passed over his features. "Ah, that one. That - please let go, Jessi, Daddy needs to get over there - that is going to remain there for some time."

"But what's in it?"

"A very powerful, magical artifact," he replied, "one of the few magical artifacts left in this realm."

Vanessa looked at him, confusion evident in her hazel eyes. "I thought there was no magic in this realm."

"Oh, there is, darling," he answered her as he limped to the shelf behind the counter. "Magic exists here, but it doesn't work in the same way that it does in our realm. It's much more subtle, and only a select few can feel it, so it's thought that magic doesn't exist. It does. From what I gather, it exists everywhere, just in different forms." He lifted the box down from the shelf and placed it on the counter in front of his wife. "At any rate, this artifact was constructed in this realm but still possesses a strong magic of its own."

His hand remained draped protectively over its lid, and she noticed he made no move to lift the lid to reveal what was inside.

"Why won't you let me see?" she asked him. She did not sound hurt or offended, but genuinely curious.

"Because, my love, there are those who would literally kill to have this in their possession, and simply knowing of its existence is enough to mark you for death if the wrong people find out." He removed his hand from the lid and cupped her cheek. "I'm doing it for your safety. By rights I shouldn't have even acknowledged it."

She tensed. "Surely it's not your-"

"No. No, it's not. That's hidden elsewhere, safely I might add."

At this, she relaxed and let out a soft, barely audible sigh of relief.

"Darling, I'm going to ask you to trust me," John said quietly, keeping his voice down so that Jessica, who was currently adjusting her backpack on her shoulders, would not hear. "The object in this box is extremely dangerous, both from a physical standpoint as well as a magical one. You mustn't say a word of it. I'm not going to show you what it is, but you have to realize that it's for your safety as well as Jessica's. Swear to me that you won't say a word of it."

She did not hesitate to answer, "I swear."

He seemed satisfied with this, and promptly returned the box to the shelf, pushing it back into the shadows, out of sight.

"It's best we don't acknowledge it, at least not now," he said quietly.


	11. The Merchantman

A/N: Sorry for the long delay! This chapter most likely will be rewritten in the future, but I wanted to go ahead and post it. Italics indicate flashbacks. Morgan and any characters that are not in either canon belong to me. Thanks to Ellie and Minty for their assistance and inspiration with this chapter.

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Chapter 11 - The Merchantman

_Morning dawned gray, misty, and chilly. It was an unusual condition, but nonetheless advantageous to Killian, Morgan, and their respective crews. The mist was not thick, yet it provided just enough coverage to conceal the _Jolly Roger_ as she idled near a small throng of shoals. Killian stood at the helm, a spyglass lifted to his eye. He had focused it on the horizon, which was beginning to glimmer in the cold morning haze. The galley that had been spotted the previous night proved to be a gamble neither Killian nor Morgan intended to take - evidently the galley had been relieved of her cargo at a nearby island, thus she had nothing of value onboard. She had also suffered damage to one of her sheets and yardarms in a recent storm. She had not been disabled completely, but it had greatly impeded her speed. Both of these facts had rendered her safe from pirate attacks._

_Morgan leaned back against the railing, observing Killian. Since their exchange in his quarters, she had been less wary of him. He was still an annoyance, but her anger and wrath had been reduced to nigh a simmer. It puzzled her, the way he had spoken to her the previous night. He spoke with utmost sincerity, something she had, up until then, never seen from him. He had laid bare his scars just as she had bared hers, albeit she had not intended to do so. The intimacy of the moment had frightened her, and she had refused to say more than she deemed necessary. What effect that moment had on their current, reluctant partnership remained to be seen._

_He lowered the spyglass and looked at her, smirking. "Still can't resist me, can you, darling?"_

_She rolled her eyes. "Don't be absurd."_

_His smirk did not fall as he approached her in two steady, elegant strides, the spyglass still open in his hand. "I've noticed you staring at me for some time."_

_"I don't know what you're talking about." She had turned her attention to her nails, aware of his proximity and the warmth that emanated from him. _

_"I think you do," he answered, his voice low. "For a pirate, you're a terrible liar."_

_"For your information, Captain," she began, turning her eyes up to meet his, "I have no interest in you whatsoever, if that's what you're implying. Just because I happen to be a woman doesn't mean that I'm going to simper at your feet at the slightest provocation. If that's what you want, it'd be in your best interest to go to some whore on the street. Perhaps you'd get your money's worth, seeing as they're all dirt cheap."_

_His nostrils were beginning to flare in irritation, but his face remained stoic. "Why are you playing so damn hard to get?"_

_"I'm not playing hard to get! You've managed to delude yourself into thinking that I could possibly want anything from you other than this current business arrangement."_

_He tilted his head slightly. "Do you?"_

_"Absolutely not!" she cried._

_"Are ye two lovebirds are done with yer bickerin'?" asked Doyle as he came to stand at the bottom of the steps leading to the helm. He was looking straight at them, his eyes narrowed in suspicion._

_Killian's smirk widened as he glanced from Doyle back to Morgan. "Did you hear that? He called us 'lovebirds!'"_

_She smiled tightly, the gesture never reaching her eyes but conveying her annoyance. "So he did."_

_"He's got an idea-"_

_"He's gone senile," Morgan interjected, returning to her nails again. "The sun's fucked with his head."_

_"Oy!" cried an indignant Doyle._

_In the years to come, Killian would never be able to understand how he had managed to avoid cracking a rib in an attempt to keep from laughing. "I doubt that the sun's fucked with his head."_

_"He be talkin' sense fer once," Doyle said, his eyes on Morgan to gauge her reaction, which, to his disappointment, consisted only of a steady, cold look. "But that's not why I'm here."_

_"Then why are you here?" Killian asked, losing interest in the moment at hand._

_"To inform ye that there be a merchant vessel off the starboard bow. Happened to spot it while ye two were busy flirtin'."_

_"We were _not _flirting!" Morgan hissed. "Captain Hook here just insists on being the thorn in my side he's always been!"_

_"Ye bicker like an old married couple. The men are startin' to wonder."_

_"Let them wonder all they like!"_

_While these words were being exchanged, Killian had gone to the starboard bow, gripping a line as he hoisted himself onto the railing (this proved to be slightly difficult, as he had only one hand). In the fog, he could see a dark silhouette of a ship gliding towards them from the horizon. He could not tell what colors were being flown, as the mist obscured them. Yet the vessel was still gliding silently towards them. A confrontation of any sort would be inevitable._

_"All hands on deck!" he barked. _

_"What are their colors?" he heard Morgan ask from behind, even through the flurry of activity on deck. _

_"The fog makes it difficult to tell," Killian answered as he hopped down from the railing. "I'd wager they've been blown off course. Very few ships pass through here, since this is too far south of the trade winds."_

_"And yet this is one of your favorite hunting grounds," Morgan noted as she followed him to the helm. _

_"Aye, it is - specifically for that reason," Killian answered her as they climbed the stairs to the wheel. "Most pirates, such as yourself I'm sure, haunt the trade winds and other high-traffic regions. As you could imagine, the merchant vessels are always on their guard. But here? They're told that there are no pirates here. They're lulled into a false sense of security and they let their guard - and their guns - down. You'd have to be a damn fool not to take advantage of that. Usually, the vessels that come through here are carrying some valuable cargo. They don't come through here as often as in the trade winds, but when they do, they're easy prey."_

_The logic behind his selection of territory was indeed sound, and Morgan wondered why she had not thought to use the outlying areas for her own hunting grounds. Her prey were almost always found along main trade routes, as there were some valuable cargo, ranging from jewels and gold in the west to expensive textiles like silk in the east, and to raw materials like sugar cane from the south and various metal ores from the north. These were rather easy to sell, and she was usually able to get a good price for them in the pirate-friendly towns along the routes. Then there were the ships that passed through from other realms, though these were rare._

_Killian reached the wheel and took it in hand. He looked rather calm, though Morgan knew he was silently calculating and planning. As Morgan watched, the other vessel grew closer. Her colors were now discernible - Morgan recognized them as belonging to a kingdom from the south. It was no pirate vessel._

_As the vessel neared, Killian began shouting orders for the preparation of a raid. Morgan, too, barked commands at her own crew. As with most pirate crews, Morgan's and Killian's crews were expected to be armed at all times - no pirate worth his salt would be caught without at least a cutlass. In response to their captains' orders, the two crews, which had incorporated themselves over the past few months, began to scurry about. The merchantman was now within range._

_"Strike the colors!" Morgan commanded as she stood on the railing, clutching a rope in her hand in preparation to board. "Resistance is not an option!"_

_Her men did as they were ordered - as one never told Captain Morgan Teach no, nor did one ever disobey her and expect to survive to tell the tale. The _Jolly Roger's _flag, a black banner with the customary skull, though with hooks instead of crossbones, was promptly hoisted, though upside down. Resistance, as the flag dictated, was not in the merchantman's best interest; it promised not only death, but torture._

_In response, and not to be outdone on what he considered his own territory, Killian shouted, "Man the guns!"_

_The guns, to Killian's satisfaction, were soon occupied. It was not his intention to sink the ship, rather to disable the merchantman's cannons to make the raid easier. After several blasts from the _Jolly Roger's _guns, the task proved to be successful, as several of the merchantman's guns had been damaged in the volley. _

_Grappling hooks sailed over the heads of the merchantman's crew. Some of them remained frozen in terror, while the more seasoned men among them began to scurry about, grabbing flintlocks and swords with which to arm themselves in preparation to fight off the invaders. The captain began to shout orders to the crew, barking to prepare for battle._

_The Jolly Roger's crew now swung over to their prey, landing swiftly on the deck with the ease of routine. The merchantman's crew lunged at them, brandishing swords and pistols, but they found they were outnumbered. They were soon gathered on the deck, forced to their knees before Morgan and Killian, who stood with swords in their hands. _

_"Search the ship," barked Morgan to the rest of her crew. "From the crows nest down to the bilges. Go!"_

_"Captain!" called one of Killian's men, "what do we do with the crew?"_

_"Bind them," Killian answered over the din of the raid, a combination of yells, screams, and metal scraping against metal. "We'll deal with them later."_

_They went immediately to do his bidding, and presently each man's hands bound with rope. Killian supervised the raiding of the hold while Morgan paced in front of the captives, leering at them. Some of them glared, others shrank. But one man to the far left of the line whispered harshly to his neighbor, "She's got them all pussy whipped. She's a woman - women don't give orders and men don't follow 'em."_

_He looked up upon feeling a presence in front of him, and he found, to his shock, Morgan standing above him. Her eyes were cold, her nostrils flaring in anger, yet she remained calm as she said, "I may be a woman, but you're the one on your knees in front of me with your hands bound."_

_The man seemed to have realized what an egregious error he had made, and he cast his eyes immediately to the deck. She crouched before him, grabbing the hair at the base of his skull and yanking his neck back. In an instant, the blade of her cutlass was pressed to his throat. He swallowed the large knot in his throat with difficulty. He tried to remain stoic, but Morgan could see him plainly shaking._

_"The sea bitch," the man hissed. "Yer still not better than any man. Yer foolin' yourself, missy."_

_At this she grew incensed. She drew her blade swiftly across his neck, causing blood to gush forth in a tide of crimson. The man tried to speak, but all he was able to utter were choked noises. Morgan rose, wiping her blade on the man's shirt. As the man continued to hemorrhage, she searched through his pockets, a venture which proved unsuccessful. At length, however, the man uttered one last, strangled breath, and he grew limp, sinking forward to the deck. She rose and turned her attention to the pirate standing behind the man's body._

_"Get rid of the dead weight," she commanded. _

_The pirate nodded and, with some difficulty, hauled the man to the railing, wherein he was promptly tossed overboard. Killian, who was observing this activity, nodded once at her in acknowledgement and approval as she stalked the line again, like a lioness stalking her prey._

_As the merchant crew waited, though not without bated breath, they watched as their cargo was unloaded from their hold. Not a single member of the merchantman's crew dared to utter a single word, as they did not wish to share the fate of their comrade. Killian directed his men during the cargo transfer while Morgan oversaw the captives. The transfer of cargo to the pirate vessel was swift and conducted with the ease of routine. Though he knew that they had acquired some valuable loot, he resolved to administer the shares later._

_Killian eventually returned to Morgan, who stood by with the captives. He took a moment to observe them, wondering perhaps whether any of them would be suitable to crew the Jolly Roger under his command._

_He calmly strolled down the line; many of the men remained silent, their eyes cast to the deck. At length, he paused before one of the sailors, his eyes wide. Morgan, her interest piqued, observed him from her position at the end of the line. He had come to stand before a man with blonde, curly hair, who had his head down. _

_"Look at me, sailor," Killian ordered._

_The man reluctantly obeyed. A look of shock passed over Killian's face, his eyes wide and his lips slightly parted. A sense of familiarity, combined with a hint of nostalgia, lingered behind the veil of shock. His tone was so soft that Morgan could barely catch what he had said._

_"Nibs?"_


	12. Of Books, Diamonds, and Trojan Horses

A/N: I know I don't update this often. I have work and soon I'll be starting school, but I update when I can. Thank you to all of you who read, favorite, review, and follow. It's very encouraging to know others read and enjoy my works. As always, Italics indicate flashbacks. I own only Morgan and non-canon characters. Everyone else belongs to their respective owners.

* * *

Chapter 12 - Of Books, Diamonds, and Trojan Horses

Dean had been dozing on the cot when he heard the click of the key in the lock. He opened one eye to find, to his surprise, Sheriff Graham unlocking the cell door. He opened both eyes and sat upright on his cot, swinging his legs over the side to rest his feet on the floor. His back was still aching, as the cot had provided next to no support for his larger frame, but he had learned to tolerate pain over the years, as it was a necessity in what he called "the family business." Sheriff Graham swung the door open, looking at the former prisoner almost like an expectant puppy.

"What the hell is this?" Dean asked, motioning at the open door with his chin.

"Morgan called in earlier this morning," Graham replied, a little uncertain as to whether her judgment was sound. "She says you're free to go."

"Even after all those charges she read?"

"She says that she's looking into the case. She believes that there's something the investigators either missed or completely denied. Your car's still impounded on her order, but it's not like you'd be able to leave Storybrooke anyway."

Dean's sharp green eyes narrowed. "What's all this crap about no one leaving Storybrooke?"

Graham shrugged his shoulders and leaned against the frame of the open cell. "No one ever does. That's just the way this town works. We've had three strangers show up within a few days of each other. It's starting to unnerve the residents; we're not used to something like this."

"Who's the other stranger?"

"A woman named Emma Swan. She's apparently Henry's birth mother."

"The mayor's kid is adopted?" Dean asked incredulously, trying to absorb this new information.

"Yes, he is. If I were you, I'd get back to Granny's Inn. If Morgan comes back and finds you still loitering, she may change her mind. She's known for being quite capricious."

Not needing any more encouragement, Dean rose to his feet, stretched and calmly walked out of his cell. He looked around the station, but could find nothing of value or importance, or indeed anything that could provide him with clues as to the exact nature of this strange little town. Sam, he knew, would most likely still be in the hotel room or at the diner. At the thought of food, he felt his stomach begin to ache, and a low growl sounded from his abdomen. If Graham heard it, he did not acknowledge it, but he had instead gone back to his desk behind a glass wall. Unlikely to get another word out of him, Dean crossed the room, grabbed his jacket from the rack by the door, and walked out of the station a free man.

Or so he believed.

The diner was always busy at this time of morning. Patrons sat huddled over plates of breakfast meats, eggs, waffles, and pancakes, warming themselves against the icy Maine wind with steaming mugs of coffee. Sam did not partake of any of the eggs and bacon he'd ordered, and they sat idly by his right elbow, now cold. He sipped at his coffee as he scanned the front page of the town's newspaper, _The Daily Mirror._ It seemed to him to be more opinion than fact, comprised of one large editorial broken down into sections. It spoke of mundane town matters - community events, the school calendar for the week, the weather - but nothing immediately jumped out at him.

Yet one thing did confuse him.

As he scanned the pages again, he found no mention of Dean or himself. It was as if they had never come to Storybrooke, and the paper was that day's issue. If their arrival had caused as much of a stir as Morgan and the others had claimed, why were they not even mentioned? Whoever was in charge of the paper, Sam assumed, wanted their arrival to be kept quiet, at least for the moment. Were the residents so sheltered that any sort of change would upset the entire citizenry? If so, what could have caused them to be so sheltered? He had observed, as he sat at the diner the past few mornings and afternoons, that there was a certain odd manner in which the residents went about their daily business. It was as if they were all in some sort of fog or mist, trapped in their own little worlds. He had observed people being absorbed in their own lives - indeed, it was a basic human trait - but something about these people, whatever that was, he found disquieting.

"Hi."

He started from his whirlwind of thought and looked to the side of the table. A little boy stood there, approximately ten years old with dark hair and dark eyes. Sam recognized him as Henry, the mayor's child, though he had not seen him since Henry was returned to Regina several nights previously. Henry was observing him, more out of interest than fear, and had taken to climbing into the booth across from him, setting his schoolbag beside him in the seat.

"Uh…hi," Sam returned, somewhat caught off guard. "Aren't you supposed to be in school?"

"Yeah, but I'm waiting for Emma. She promised to buy me breakfast today and she's late."

"Emma?"

"She's my birth mom. I'm adopted; I went to Boston to find her and she brought me back here."

Sam gave a short nod of understanding.

"You're new here, right?" Henry asked.

"Yeah. I'm here with my brother, Dean. He's…well, he's locked up at the station."

"What'd he do?"

"Well, I mean…it's not that he did anything, but something happened a while back that earned him a few charges he didn't deserve. Your aunt had him locked up until she could look into the case even further."

Henry, who had unzipped his bag and was now rummaging through it, paused and looked up at the young man. "She doesn't do anything for free. She's a pirate, so she's going to want something in return."

Sam blinked. Hell of an accusation to make against one's family member, he thought. "Excuse me? Did you just say your aunt is a _pirate_?"

"Yeah. So is my Uncle Killian. He's Captain Hook."

Sam had lifted his mug of coffee to his lips, and just as the warm liquid touched the sensitive flesh of his mouth, he spat it back out again in astonishment. The fact that the boy had stated it so calmly was also a surprise. "Wait, what? Captain Hook?"

"Here, lemme show you," Henry grunted as he tugged a large book out of his bag. He plopped onto the table, prompting the plate, silverware, seasoning shakers, and napkin holder to rattle in protest. He flipped open the large leather volume and began flipping through it, leafing past various illustrations until he came to the one he was looking for. It was of a beautiful woman with dark hair, dark eyes, and what could only be called a sneer on her lips. "That's Regina, my mom. Here in Storybrooke she's the mayor, but in the Enchanted Forest, she's the Evil Queen."

"The Evil Queen? From Snow White?"

"Yeah. Snow White's here too - she's my teacher. She goes by Mary Margaret."

"Okay. What about your aunt and uncle?"

Henry, grateful for this opportunity, flipped to the aforementioned subjects. This illustration was of a dark-haired couple, pirates by the look of their clothing. They stood at a ship's wheel, surrounded by rigging. The man had one hand on the wheel, while the woman stood proudly, almost intimidatingly, at his side. Sam noted the hook that served as the man's hand, and upon closer inspection, found the couple to be very familiar.

"That's Morgan and Killian Jones," Sam noted, somewhat confused.

"Right. He goes by Captain Hook in Fairytale Land. See?" Henry pointed to it, and Sam acknowledged it with a nod.

"So, this book you have. What is it?"

"It's the history of this town. It tells us why we're here. See, everyone knows about fairy tales. Cinderella, Snow White, Hansel and Gretel. Well, what if I told you that those fairy tales were all true? And that they're here in this town?"

"Why are they here? You implied they belong in another realm."

"They do. It's called the Old Realm, the Enchanted Forest, Fairytale Land, and a lot of other different names. But the Evil Queen cast a very powerful curse that brought them all here and trapped them. They've forgotten who they are, except for a few people. Regina, Morgan, Killian, and Rumplestiltskin."

"Rumplestiltskin is here too?"

"Yeah. He's Mr. Gold, the pawn shop owner. They all managed to escape losing their memories, but they're trapped here like everyone else."

Sam looked down at the book as Henry continued to flip through it, pointing out the aforementioned residents as he leafed through the pages. The book had now taken up most of the tabletop, Sam's cold plate having been pushed to the side, forgotten. Henry had proceeded to launch into a lengthy explanation that had Sam's head spinning from the onslaught of revelation. He was conflicted in the matter of the boy's mental stability; one part of him said that Henry was a troubled child, while the other half asked, _Even if Henry's troubled, how does that explain the pictures in the book, or the stories? No child could have possibly written, drawn, and bound something like this._

Sam's head was beginning to ache with the information, and it was now that he was beginning to discover a whole meaning to the term 'possibility.' He believed in the existence of other realms - of Heaven, Hell, Purgatory, and perhaps some unknown spirit world - but it had never crossed his mind that a fairy tale world existed. The former he knew existed from experience, but the latter? Of course, most of what he had seen in his life would be dismissed by a layman as fairy tales; many people thought spirits and demons as fictional as the fairy tale characters Henry was now describing.

"And this is Red Riding Hood, but here she goes by Ruby, the waitress over there-" Henry paused when he looked up towards the door of the diner. His eyes brightened and he waved, prompting Sam to turn round to face the door. A blonde woman in jeans and a red leather jacket had entered, and was now approaching the table. She came to stand at the side of it, her hands in her pockets and her expression apologetic as she beheld Henry.

"Sorry I'm late, kid," she answered. "I overslept. You're going to be late for school, so we'll have to postpone the breakfast."

Henry's face fell. "But you promised!"

"Yeah but school takes priority. Come on, let's go." She glanced at Sam. "Was he bothering you?"

"Oh, no, not at all. He was telling me about his book."

The woman rolled her eyes at Henry. "Really? You don't just walk up to people and plop your book down while they're eating."

"But he wasn't eating!" Henry protested. "And he was interested! He's new here too, just like you!"

She returned her eyes to the aforementioned man. "You're not a resident?"

"Ah, no. My brother Dean and I, our car broke down just at the town line so we had to have it towed. A few things came up and we haven't been able to leave."

She seemed to relax slightly at this revelation, perhaps eased by the fact that she was not the only stranger in Storybrooke. "Emma Swan."

"Sam Winchester. It's nice to meet you, Emma."

"Likewise." She returned her attention to Henry. "Come on, kid, let's go."

"Wait." Henry closed the book and made to put it in his backpack, but Sam stopped him.

"Hey, Henry?"

He glanced up. "Yeah?"

"Would you mind if I borrowed that book? I'd like to show my brother. I'll give it back as soon as we're finished with it."

"Do you promise?"

"Cross my heart."

Henry considered this for a moment, then slid the closed book across the table to him. "Okay but don't let anything happen to it."

"I won't. Promise."

Satisfied, Henry grabbed his backpack and slid out of the booth. Emma turned and said as she passed Sam, "Sorry about the interruption."

"Oh no, it's fine."

She gave a terse nod as she continued to the door. She pushed it open and held it as Henry slipped out, glancing one last time over his shoulder at Sam as he hoisted his backpack onto his back. He began to slowly walk down the sidewalk, with Emma releasing the door as she followed him.

Killian sat in his office at the shipyard, pouring over a map that he had spread out on the desk before him. Storybrooke was larger than most residents realized, this fact proven by the map; the town was nestled amongst a large forest, but seemed to melt into the terrain rather than seclude itself from it. It was the forest that held his interest, and he marked various places with a pencil, his brows furrowed in concentration. There were few places he could look for the diamond, if indeed the artifact had made it to this realm. He hoped that it had, but he had no guarantees that it had been transported here along with the other magical artifacts when the curse swept through.

His back was aching from bending over the desk for what he assumed to be the better part of an hour. He straightened and stretched, a frown etching his handsome features; he was no closer to finding the damn thing. There had to be a clue to its whereabouts. If he and Morgan were to succeed, they needed the diamond and the power therein contained. Here they had no magic, and even if they managed to return to their old realm, their magic would not be sufficient, not for this. The diamond was the key to their freedom and their safety.

For another several moments he perused the map, his brows still furrowed in concentration, his temples beginning to ache from the tension. This, he knew, was going to be quite difficult.

_"Peter?" asked the young blonde man, squinting his eyes against the harsh afternoon sun. "So you became a pirate after all."_

_"It's not Peter anymore." Killian glanced at Morgan, who seemed interested in the conversation but was trying, with some success, to hide it. He then turned to one of his men and commanded softly, "Take this man to my quarters."_

_"And the others?"_

_"Do what you will to them, but this man here is not to be harmed." His sea-blue eyes focused on Morgan in warning as he said the last. "He is no threat."_

_"Aye, sir," his man returned, promptly grabbing the blonde man around the arm. This elicited a sudden glance in his direction, then a glare as he was roughly escorted from the merchantman. Killian observed them as they went, his expression unreadable. He seemed almost pensive, if not nostalgic, and Morgan could not help but wonder what it was about this man that inspired in the captain such reflections. She approached, her eyes on the men's retreating backs, and came to stand at his side._

_"Friend of yours?" she asked casually._

_Killian glanced at her quickly before returning his eyes to the men. "You could say that. Although I fail to see how it is any concern of yours what sort of acquaintance he is."_

_"It isn't," she acknowledged, "but you obviously know him."_

_"I'm a pirate. I know a lot of people." The finality in his tone was glaringly obvious, signaling to her that he did not wish to continue the current discussion. Morgan, for a moment, considered whether to continue if only out of spite, but at length she acquiesced. She was not terribly fond of him, but at the moment they were in the midst of a business arrangement, if one could deem it so, and to make an enemy of him at this point was but folly. Whether she wanted to admit it or not, she was at his mercy. She was on his territory, his ship, and knew that he could kill her at any moment if the mood struck him._

_She said not another word but turned and looked towards the horizon. The bright blue of the sky seemed to melt into the turquoise veil of the sea, but she saw now a dark shape floating towards them. She called immediately for a glass, and when it was brought to her she lifted it to her eye. The shape was another vessel, a merchantman who seemed to be flying the same colors as the one they had just captured. She lowered the glass and turned her head to Killian._

_"There's another," she told him, holding the glass out to him. "See for yourself."_

_He did so, lifting the glass to his eye, observing the distant vessel a moment before lowering it. "Aye, so there is." He glanced at her. "You're a captain yourself, are you not? What's your plan?"_

_She looked around, her brows furrowed and her eyes pensive. Then, after some time, her eyes lightened as if in epiphany. "Tell your men to take the captives below. Strip them of their garments and don them. Tie the Jolly Roger to the stern of this ship."_

_Killian's eyes sparkled in mirth and appreciation. He knew what she had planned, and it was this stroke of genius that made him, for the first time, see her as not a captive, but an equal. Whether her plan would work remained to be seen, but in his experience, it was indeed just crazy enough to work. If the Greeks succeeded with the Trojan Horse, why not use a merchant vessel against its own sister? _

_"Aye, Captain," he said at last, the right corner of his lips curling into a smirk. _


End file.
